Killing Ground
by johnsarmylady
Summary: An old adversary of Mycroft's is determined to take revenge on the Holmes brothers, and it falls to John - with a little help from some old friends - to prevent London from becoming a madman's killing ground once more. Rated T for language and possible violence.
1. Opening Game

**Okay, this just wouldn't leave me alone, and what started off as a one-shot has turned into yet another multi-chapter! I know I'm mad, but I can't ignore those lettuce munching, nose wiggling, and ear twitching inspirational Plot Bunnies!  
Disclaimer: Don't own anything vaguely Sherlock – that would be ACD, SM & MG!**

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Will you get your fucking head down!" John's voice carried across the multi-storey car park, over the whine of bullets flying indiscriminately around them.

"John, he's getting away!" Suddenly the consulting detective was up and running, oblivious to the danger he was heading into, sprinting towards the lower level, his long stride closing the gap between him and the murder suspect.

John swore again, under his breath this time, and ran after his flatmate, keeping low, following the safer path, staying in the shadow, under cover as much as possible. He had just reached the ramp leading down when he heard it – and stopped, ducking back behind a car. No one who had ever been in a war zone, in a fire fight, could mistake that sound – it was the sound of a bullet penetrating flesh, accompanied by the distinct thud of a man down. John's brain was racing. Sherlock was unarmed, and there were no police here yet, let alone an armed special ops unit, that could only mean one thing.

There was no time to lose, but John was not about to make their quarry a gift of his body as a target. Moving swiftly across the roadway to the shelter of a large four wheel drive vehicle, he crouched down and looked across at where the shooter had taken shelter, behind a low wall, just yards from the entrance. He was good, John had to admit that, not once had he given them the opportunity to take him out, he knew how to keep safe.

Punching the speed dial, he gave Lestrade no time to speak, frantically whispering a sit rep and requesting an ambulance. He cut the call and turned his attention back to matters at hand. Sherlock lay on the lower level, half hidden by cars, a red stain spreading across the front of his shirt and soaking into his Belstaff.

Firing his Browning in the direction of the gunman, John made use of the seconds that the other man took to duck out of the way, and slipped quickly along to the railings and jumped down to the lower level, landing behind another vehicle just as bullets started flying again. He looked across at Sherlock, noting the rapid, shallow breaths, the grey eyes open, staring at him, and for a moment he was transported back to the pavement outside St Bart's Hospital.

Shaking the flashback from his head, John checked the Browning's magazine – ten rounds left – making a snap decision he fired off five of those rounds, running as he did from his hiding place to Sherlock's side, pulling him back until he was completely out of sight of the man they had been chasing.

"You'll never learn, will you?" he said angrily as he ripped Sherlock's shirt open to get a better look at the wound. Sherlock's mouth opened but John cut him off. "No you bloody don't, Sherlock Holmes, you bloody well keep quiet and let me deal with this!" Turning away briefly, he checked the position of the gunman, it would be foolish in the extreme to let him sneak up on them. The crack of a gunshot told him all he needed to know, and so he turned his attention to his friend lying, bleeding on the floor.

The bullet had penetrated quite high on the left side of his chest, and blood was frothing out fairly sluggishly.

"Hurts breathing, yes?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes never leaving on the doctors face.

"Okay, don't try to move." John checked on the gunman again, just as a car drove up from the underground level of the building. Under cover of this, their quarry made his move, darting away, so that all John could see was the swing of the door as it closed behind him.

"Shit!"

"What?" it was a croaky whisper.

"Shut up, Sherlock." The doctor hit the redial on his phone and turned on the speaker, putting it down on the floor beside him to free up his hands to work on his injured friend. He had just torn a strip off Sherlock's already ruined shirt, and wadded it up to plug the wound, when Lestrades mobile was answered.

"Yeah, John, what d'you need?" his voice sounded tinny.

"You man's out and running" John replied, not pausing in his work "He left the car park via the pedestrian exit on the far side, away from the shopping centre." He paused for a moment while he rolled Sherlock onto his injured side, saying softly as that man groaned in pain "Yeah mate, I know it hurts, but at least it'll stop you drowning in your own blood." Keeping one hand over the wound, he then climbed over so that he could prop his flatmate up, supporting his back and preventing him from rolling over again. With his free hand he picked up the phone and switched off the speaker.

"Greg, where's that ambulance?"

"On its way, John, how is he?"

"He's been better," under his hand he felt a shudder as Sherlock tried to control a laugh.

"Yeah, but will he…"

"Just hurry them up, Greg, please?"

John sat and held his friend, knowing by the relaxing of his body the moment he finally lost consciousness. In the distance he heard the welcome sound of an ambulance siren.

Moments later, two green clad paramedics ran across the car park towards him. They looked down at the two bloody men on the floor. John read the concern in their eyes.

"I'm fine, it's his blood." He said, introducing himself and shifting aside so they could get in to look at the injury. "He has a traumatic open pneumothorax, bullet still present. He was conscious until a few moments ago." John reported with clinical precision, following this with Sherlock's blood type, and such medical history as was necessary for them to know. "You will need, if possible, to avoid administering any kind of opiate, the patient is extremely sensitive."

The older of the two paramedics nodded, he recognised the euphemism for 'ex-addict', and respected the need for patient confidentiality. With quick, efficient movements, they strapped him to the stretcher and were soon loading him into the back of the ambulance.

John had followed them out, blinking in the low winter sun, his eyes unaccustomed to the bright sunlight after the dim, artificially lit building. Greg appeared at his side.

"How is he?"

"Alright, I think. I suppose there's no chance of you finding where our shooter went?"

"No." Greg blew out a frustrated breath. "Sally and some of the team are trying to find anyone who may have seen anything, but…" he left the sentence hanging as the paramedic leaned out of the back of the ambulance.

"You travelling with?" he asked John

John nodded and turned briefly to Greg.

"I'll keep you posted, let you know where he is and how he's doing." Then he climbed up into the vehicle and they were gone, blue lights on and sirens wailing.

O*O*O

It felt like hours since the nurse had shown John into the waiting room, but in reality it had been little over fifteen minutes.

Sherlock had been rushed into theatre, and initially John had been left to his own devices. Heading straight for the nearest washroom, he scrubbed at his hands and forearms, washing his friend's blood from his skin, trying to get the metallic tang of it from his nostrils. Once he was done, he wandered around looking for somewhere to wait, and found himself in the corridor near the operating theatre.

"Can I help you, Sir?" a petite woman in theatre scrubs looked up at John expectantly. His eyes flicked quickly over her uniform, reading her name embroidered on her clothing.

"Sister Prakesh?"

She nodded.

"I'm looking for the family waiting room, sorry, I'm not familiar with the new layout of the hospital."

Sister Prakesh smiled hesitantly.

"I worked here for a while some years back" John smiled back. "A friend of mine was taken into theatre with a gunshot wound to the chest –I was told I could wait in the family room, but I seem to have lost it!"

A chuckle escaped the woman. "I'll show you."

So here he was, sitting in a large, comfortable room, looking at his watch every two minutes.

"John." Mycroft's voice dropped softly into the silence and John leapt to his feet, looking up at the embodiment of the British Government.

"Mycroft, you got my message."

"Obviously. Care to elaborate?"

John gestured to one of the comfortable armchairs, waiting until the other man was seated before retaking his seat.

Taking a deep, calming breath, John relayed the events of the day, from the murder, tracking down the man most likely to have committed it, and then the fire fight in the car park and the moment Sherlock had run headlong into the gunman's sights. Throughout his telling, Mycroft had remained silent, simply nodding occasionally, his expression carefully neutral. When he finished, John looked at the floor, chewing his bottom lip, a frown deepening on his brow. Mycroft watched him and waited.

"Mycroft, I'm sorry!" he blurted out eventually "I know you trusted me to keep him safe, and I've let you, and him, down."

"No, John, you mustn't think that…"

"But if…."

"John. Listen to me." Mycroft leaned forward, his piercing blue gaze holding the doctor in his chair. "When I learned what was happening, I was able to watch on the CCTV – you couldn't have stopped my brother, John, but your swift actions will have tipped the scales in his favour. If he lives it will be thanks to you."

John just stared unhappily at the floor, seeing failure writ large in that word – if.

A sudden movement broke into his silent self-reproach, and he looked up to see that Mycroft had risen and crossed the room to stare out of the window.

"I need to ask something of you, John," Mycroft didn't turn but continued to stare unseeing out of the window. "I would appreciate if you give it serious consideration."

"Give what serious consideration?" Nobody, John thought, could ever accuse the Holmes brothers of being boring or uncomplicated. He waited.

"The man you were chasing, a man by the name of Marc Banks, is known to us – to me." He sighed, and walked back to his chair. "He used to work for me, John, and he's a very dangerous man."

"So what do you need me to do?"

"I believe this whole incident, from the murder, to your face off in the car park, was orchestrated specifically to get at me somehow, with the added bonus for him of taking Sherlock out of the picture!"

"What?"

"Sherlock was instrumental, some years ago, in Banks going to prison for trying to sell state secrets to the highest bidder. He came out of prison, on licence, about two years ago but then promptly dropped out of sight. He is unforgiving, and holds a grudge against my brother and me, a grudge I am sure he has spent the intervening years honing a plan to destroy us both"

John look stunned.

"Okay," he said slowly, "and what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to hunt him down!"


	2. Old Comrades

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original story**

Whatever John had been expecting, it certainly wasn't that – Mycroft had untold numbers of well trained (and well-armed) people at his beck and call. And it couldn't even have been because this was personal, because an attack on Mycroft is an attack on the British Government, and that, near as damn it, was treason.

"What makes you think I'm capable of finding this guy?"

"Come now, John, don't be modest. I've seen your service record; I know what you are capable of"

"I seriously doubt that" John muttered under his breath, then, louder. "How the hell did you get hold of my service record?"

Mycroft smiled that awful, smirk-like smile, the one that said 'you should know nothing's secret from me'.

"Okay, don't answer that." Sighing, John scrubbed at his face with his hands. "I'll need to know more about him – that he's dangerous, bears a grudge and used to work for you just isn't enough information – I'll need known associates, places he has ties to, family…"

"I will make all this information available to you John; however you must know we have exhausted all those lines of enquiry…"

"Maybe you have, Mycroft, but without thorough background information, I might as well search for him through Directory Enquiries – I'd have about as much success."

This time Mycroft's smile was genuine.

"I begin to understand why my brother tolerates having you around" he said looking thoughtfully at the ex-army doctor.

"Thanks….I think" John's tone was heavy with sarcasm.

For a while neither man spoke, each having retreated into their own thoughts. John pulled out his mobile and rattled off a message to Lestrade – although there was little enough to tell, he knew the detective would be worried.

That done, John took the opportunity to observe his flatmate's older brother; Mycroft's gaze was fixed on the door, and it seemed strange to think he had known the man almost as long as he'd known Sherlock, but he knew very little about the person behind the starched façade; in fact, the only thing he really knew about him was his name.

The silence in the waiting room was so heavy, that when the door finally opened both men jumped almost guiltily, getting to their feet, John positioning himself slightly behind Sherlock's brother. Tension crackled as they waited for the nurse to speak.

"Mr Holmes" Nurse Carter was drawn automatically to the sharply dressed Government man, "your brother has been taken down to the private room that you have arranged for him."

"His condition?" John stepped forward as he realised Mycroft wasn't going to ask that question, and again he wondered about the relationship between the siblings. The nurse looked at him, then back at Mycroft. A brief nod of his head gave her permission to answer.

"The bullet has been removed, and Mr Holmes' condition is stable" John nodded at this information. The nurse continued "That's really all I can tell you. I've been asked to take Mr Holmes to his brother's room; the surgeon will be able to tell you more."

"Dr Watson will accompany me" Mycroft spoke at last and only someone used to hearing him speak would have picked up the concern quivering in voice. John made no comment, certainly he was not about to offer any kind of physical support or comfort – the man standing next to him wouldn't appreciate that at all – but he stood by him nonetheless.

If the nurse was surprised by the statement, she didn't show it, only gesturing for the two men to follow her.

"Thanks for this, Mycroft." John spoke quietly.

The elder Holmes brother just raised an eloquent eyebrow.

"If not for you he would not have made it this far," Mycroft's voice was equally as quiet "and what is more, John, you will understand the medical terminology"

Stifling a grin, John glanced up at the man walking beside him.

"Still, I appreciate it"

As they turned into another corridor, John could identify the room that Sherlock had been taken to, as there were two sharp suited armed heavies standing guard on the door. He slowed his pace slightly, allowing Mycroft to approach the room ahead of him. And he didn't miss the silent, almost imperceptible acknowledgement that passed between his flatmate's brother and the two Government lackeys.

Once inside the room, John took a moment to appreciate the effort that Mycroft had gone to on his brother's behalf. The room was light, airy and very comfortable. To one side was a bathroom, and there were comfortable wing chairs on either side of the bed. A private nurse was checking Sherlock's stats, and to John's trained eye Sherlock looked better than he'd anticipated. As the nurse moved away he took her place, and did his own quick check of the machine readings, reassuring himself before bringing his attention back to the unconscious man in the bed.

O*O*O

It was late into the evening before John finally made his way back up the stairs to the flat. He had waited with Mycroft to hear the surgeon's report, had explained to Sherlock's brother in layman's terms the underlying causes for concern, and the greater reasons to believe that the young man would make a full recovery.

When, shortly after the surgeon's visit, Sherlock showed signs of regaining consciousness, he stayed long enough to reassure his friend that all was well, and to advise him not to attempt anything stupid – including trying to discharge himself from hospital. John didn't know whether to be relieved or worried when his flatmate capitulated without argument.

Mycroft had sent him home in one of his ever-present black cars. Anthea was sitting in the back, holding what looked suspiciously like a bag of take-away Chinese food in one hand, and a thick manila folder in the other, and both items were handed to him as he climbed out in front of Speedy's cafe.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table and eating the food straight out of the foil containers, John studied the papers in the folder, putting aside the photographs while he concentrated on the man he had agreed to hunt down.

Marc Joseph Banks, ex-army, Intelligence Corps, served on attachment with the 1st Grenadier Guards Foot Regiment, his final posting with them being their peacekeeping mission to Bosnia in the winter of 2004/2005. Within days of that tour ending, he was approached by the recently promoted Mycroft Holmes, to form part of an intelligence based Government department.

Banks had proved his worth time and again, his army training augmenting his already exceptional intelligence work, making him ideal fast-track material. Within six months he was heading up a covert ops team, and had opportunities to work more closely with Mycroft.

It was that level of trust that he had abused. He had made himself indispensable, effectively wormed his way into Mycroft's confidence, and was filtering sensitive information out of the Whitehall offices and putting them up for sale to the highest bidder. And into this bidding war fell one Sherlock Holmes, whose boredom had led him to randomly trying to hack into his brother's secure computer system.

If he hadn't though it strange that the traffic on the system was going crazy at three in the morning, his eyes certainly widened at the content of some of the messages, and the added fact that each conversation thread would suddenly be erased once completed piqued his interest. So he set himself up a pair of accounts – one to record every line of traffic on the system, the other purporting to be a new bidder, using his skill at languages to cover his tracks.

This new and fascinating puzzle kept him occupied for less than a week, but in that time he had gathered enough evidence to present to his brother conclusive proof of Banks' perfidy.

John sat back and stared into space. Everything he had learned about Marc Banks made him realise he couldn't do this without help. Thinking hard about the possibilities, he cleared away the remains of the food, and as he waited for the kettle to boil he shuffled the papers together, leaving just the photographs out of the file. As the tea brewed, he studied the face of the man who had killed just to get Sherlock's attention, and then used the young man's impetuous nature to attempt to take him out of the equation.

Taking his mug of tea, he carried the file and photographs into the living room, putting them onto the coffee table. He stood thinking for a moment, then hurried up to his room. Under his bed, dusty and untouched since the day he moved in, was a large lidded box. Pulling it out, John picked it up and carried it carefully down the stairs, placing it next to Mycroft's file. He sat down heavily on the couch and removing the lid stared down at the contents of his box.

Memories flooded back, removing John from Baker Street and dropping him straight back into Afghanistan, to nights sitting in the Officer's Mess, others spent in the office of the field hospital, surrounded by friends, laughing together – even crying together. Of those friends, the only one he'd really kept in touch with was Bill Murray, but there had been others, people who could maybe help him now, people that he hoped would understand why he's not returned their call and letters.

Straightening his shoulders, he lifted out several photograph albums and flicked through the images, pausing now and again, blinking back tears. Some of them died before he came home, some, he knew, had been lost since. His eyes scanned the pictures, looking for one particular face, and when he found it he carefully removed the photograph and put it to one side. Putting the album aside, he reached in again, moving several piles of papers and letters until he found small black leather bound book, this was what he had been looking for.

John closed his eyes and clutched the book in both hands. If he was going to help the Holmes brothers, then he was going to need a favour or two from some old friends.


	3. The Pawn's First Move

**Sorry for the delay in posting - life has managed to get in the way of writing!  
I'm not sure if I'm happy with this - but here it is none-the-less!  
Disclaimer: - still don't own…..**

With a groan John opened his eyes, squinting at his watch – six thirty. He hadn't planned to fall asleep on the couch, and he regretted not making it up to his room when every muscle and joint complained as he stood up, wobbling unsteadily. Looking down at the book still in his hands, he found himself hoping the information written in there was still relevant – more to the point, that the people he needed to contact would be forgiving of his bout of self-pity.

Moving as if on autopilot, John made tea and toast, and sat down to have breakfast while making notes for his opening gambit in this deadly chess game. By the time he'd finished his second cup, he knew what he needed to do, and even had a sketchy 'plan B' if the first proved either unacceptable or too difficult. Both plans, however, required Mycroft Holmes to give him free rein, without too many questions, particularly about the people he wanted to work with.

O*O*O

A short while later, showered and with his plans firmly in mind, John stepped out of the door and hailed a cab. The journey was tiresome as the rush hour traffic choked the roads, but soon he was walking along the hospital corridor, to the private room where Sherlock was still guarded by his brother's security officers. He saw the door open as he approached and Mycroft stepped out.

"Good morning, John" Mycroft's smile was small, but genuine. "I hope you slept well?"

"And I'm assuming you already know I didn't" John smiled back "but it was a productive night none the less." He glanced past the other man as the door behind him was closing. "Everything okay?"

"He passed a fairly peaceful night, all things considered. The doctors are with him at the moment, so I'm taking the opportunity to stretch my legs…"

"You've been here all night?"

With a slight nod Mycroft gestured down the corridor, starting to walk as he did so. John fell into step beside him.

"Can I buy you a tea?"

John's smile became a grin. "Have you tasted hospital tea, Mycroft? No, I didn't think so. There's a Costa just down the road – my treat."

In silence the two men made their way out of the building and into the coffee shop. The silence stretched, a little uncomfortably, as each sat sipping his drink. Mycroft watched as John's eyes darted around the room, unobtrusively taking in the details of every person there, weighing up the possibility that someone there may be an enemy. He realised it had been no coincidence that the ex-army officer had chosen a table where he could see every person who came or went, including the staff.

"I have a game plan, and some questions." John kept his tone and expression light, so that anyone watching would assume they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

"Yes?"

"If I'm to do this, Sherlock can't come back to Baker Street until he is fully fit. I won't be able to watch his back _and_ yours."

"Your choice of words is interesting…"

John laughed as if his companion had just said something incredibly funny, but his eyes as he looked at the older Holmes brother were deadly serious.

"I need to know he's somewhere safe, Mycroft, or I can do nothing"

Mycroft nodded. "Understood, and your questions?"

"If I needed restricted information, could I ask you for it?" taking a sip of his tea, John continued to act as if they were just colleagues taking a break together from work. "And if I needed one or more secure lines of communication, could you arrange that for me?"

"Of course, you'll have your reasons for asking for restricted information" it wasn't a question, more a thought spoken aloud.

"The same for the secure comms – very good reasons. Give me those, and I've got your back – even if at a distance. Keep your own security tight – only people you are absolutely certain of." John looked at his watch "Time to get back, don't you think?"

The two men strolled out onto the street, walking back through the hospital entrance and along the corridor to the still guarded room. A thought suddenly occurred to the taller man as they stopped outside the door.

"I assume that as you haven't already asked me to, then you won't be expecting me to go into hiding with my brother?"

"No Mycroft, you need to act as if nothing has changed. Any obvious changes to your routine will attract attention, and although this guy was trained by the intelligence corps, we must hope we can make him believe that you haven't made the connection yet"

Entering the room, John crossed straight to the bed and looked down at where his friend was laying still, his eyes closed.

"You were never that good at playing possum, Sherlock, especially when you're wired into a heart monitor."

One grey eye opened, observing the grin on his friend's face. His gaze slid across to his brother, and he huffed grumpily.

"What's he doing here?" he croaked.

"He's been here all night, probably trying to work out what to do with you if you survive this latest bout of idiocy."

"Idiocy?"

Mycroft stepped up to the bedside.

"Yes, brother dear, idiocy. Because now, you see, I have to arrange for you to go somewhere safe until you are….._fit_."

A look of horror crossed Sherlock's face.

"And who's going to catch the perpetrator while John and I are taking a holiday?"

"Yeah, well I'm not going to be getting a 'holiday' this time round, mate. I need you out of the way while I get some work done"

"Work?" Sherlock struggled to sit up, but a combination of John's hand on his shoulder and the pain in his chest stopped him.

"Look, there's no other way for us to deal with this, which means I'm going to have to trust your brother to find somewhere secure for you to stay – I'll be back to see you before you leave here." He turned to Mycroft. "I'll want to know where you've taken him, once it's all arranged. For safety's sake I'll not be visiting, but if our friend makes a move in that direction…"

Nodding his agreement, Mycroft stepped out to speak to the two security men. John turned back to Sherlock.

"Listen, I know you don't want to go into hiding, but until you're fit you've got to lay low. This attack, apparently, is personal. Does the name Marc Banks mean anything to you?" He saw the answer in his friend's expression. "Yeah well, he's out, and he's after you and Mycroft. I'm not asking you to hide forever, just stay out of trouble until you've recovered, and do what you do best – use your brain to help me keep one step ahead of him."

"On you own? John you can't…"

"Not on my own, Sherlock, at least, I hope not. Now, I've got things to do – people to contact. I'll be back later today, and I'll tell you all I can as and when I can, okay?"

There was no mistaking the fact that Sherlock really wasn't happy, but he was too tired and in too much pain to argue further, a fact that wasn't missed by his flatmate. With a nod, John turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving the injured man to stare in frustration at the ceiling.

O*O*O

John made several purchases on his way home, and letting himself into the flat he made himself a mug of tea, then grabbed his book and headed straight to the one room he was sure Mycroft hadn't bugged – the bathroom.

Sitting on the side of the bath, he pulled a box from his carrier bag and removed the contents. The phone was the cheapest he could get on a pre pay tariff. He'd loaded it with a significant amount of credit, and now he set about making calls.

Shortly before mid-day, he returned to the kitchen, dumping the book on the table and his empty mug in the sink, then he grabbed his coat and headed back out of the flat. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs he glanced down the hallway towards Mrs Hudson's front door, standing there for a moment or two until, making up his mind, he strode down the hallway and knocked smartly on the wood.

"Hello dear," the landlady smiled at him, stepping back to let him in. "Everything alright?"

Stepping through the door, John waited until it was closed behind him before replying.

"Don't want to worry you, Mrs H, but Sherlock and Mycroft have managed to upset another nutter" he said quietly. "And I'm not sure what we can expect with this one…"

"And you want me out of the way?"

John grinned.

"I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but I think I'd be happier if you were somewhere safe."

The older woman looked a little thoughtful.

"I'd go to my sister's but she's having work done on her house, so there won't be enough room"

Eyes narrowed, John thought for a moment, his head bowed and his hand cupping his chin.

"Leave it with me, I'll see if I can persuade Mycroft to find somewhere nice for you to go, how does that sound?"

"Oh, well…" Mrs Hudson looked a little flustered at getting Mycroft involved, but John soon put her mind at rest, pointing out that Sherlock's older brother was just as much to blame for the situation they found themselves in.

Glancing at his watch, John realised time was getting on, and with a muttered "gotta go" he hurried out of the door, throwing a brief wave towards the landlady as he stepped out onto the street. There were no cabs in sight, so he turned toward the tube station, making his way down onto the crowded platform and boarded a train bound for the Barbican and Bart's hospital.

O*O*O

Molly had just finished the post mortem on the victim of the shooting at the shopping centre when John knocked on the mortuary door. She looked up as he entered, her eyes looking behind him, as if searching for someone else.

"No, just me today, Molly" John smiled as he watched an embarrassed flush steal up the pathologists cheeks. "And I'm after a favour"

"Sherlock send you?"

"No, not exactly – but it's connected with a case he and I have been working on" he deliberately didn't say anything about Sherlock's injuries "I need to see the bullet taken from yesterday's shooting"

"Bullets" Molly said, turning to pick up two clear plastic evidence bags "She was shot twice, although either would have killed her"

John took one of the bags and held it up, looking closely at the projectile.

"I don't think I've seen bullets like that before" the pathologist said, leaning in closer so that she too could see it.

"No, me neither – I'm assuming it's been specially made for the weapon. Can I take one of them?"

Molly looked dubious.

"I'll ring DI Lestrade and let him know I have it" John gave her a pleading look, before adding "And Sherlock will be grateful for your help"

"No he won't" she countered with a smile, knowing already that she would give in "He never is"

"Maybe he doesn't say it, but he couldn't do his job without your help" slipping the evidence bag into his pocket, John turned for the door. "Thanks again Molly."

Hurrying through the hospital towards the exit, John pulled out his new mobile and dialled Greg Lestrade's office number. The phone was answered after a few rings.

"Greg, it's John."

"John, how's Sherlock?"

"He's doing alright, Greg. Did the hospital send over the bullet they removed from his lung?" John stepped out into Giltspur Street, sheltering from the wind as he did so, staying close to the wall.

"Yeah," came Greg's reply "strange looking ammo – it's with our ballistics officers at the moment, why?"

"The victim yesterday was shot twice – I've just left Pathology so I've seen the bullets and I'd agree, not standard issue. Molly has let me take one of them…"

"Now hang on a minute John…"

"Greg, you don't need both of them – plus you've got the one they dug out of Sherlock for comparison. Molly reckons either shot would have killed the first victim." The doctor could hear capitulation in the silence at the other end of the phone. "Seriously Greg, I want to try to find the specialist gun this was made for."

"What about Sherlock? When's he out of hospital?"

"Not sure, mate, but Mycroft's sending him off to recuperate somewhere" John didn't want to say too much about the situation.

Greg laughed.

"I bet he'll love that," he said gleefully "At least it'll keep him out of mischief"

John rang off with a promise to keep the police informed, and flagged down a passing taxi, directing the driver to take him to St Mary's.

There were raised voices coming from Sherlock's room as he approached, and he walked into a heated discussion between the brothers about whether or not it was necessary for an ambulance to be hired to move the injured man.

Seeing his flatmate, Sherlock appealed to him for support.

"John, will you tell him I'm perfectly capable of travelling by car to Hertfordshire…"

"John," Mycroft also wished to voice his opinion "I'm trying to make him understand that it's a long way, and he's far from recovered…"

Holding up his hands for silence, John walked across to lean against the side of the bed.

"Sherlock, you've been shot, you are far from well, and if I were your doctor – which believe me I thank God I'm not – I wouldn't want to be moving you without medical assistance. Just because you've made it through surgery and are on the road to recovery, doesn't mean complications can't set in. It's early days, mate."

"But does it have to be an ambulance?"

"Would be better than a car, seriously Sherlock, You really don't want to put that kind of stress on your chest and lung just yet." He turned to Mycroft "Are you arranging private patient transport?"

"Yes, along with nursing staff. We have a safe house in Hertfordshire, one that wasn't on the list when Banks was on the payroll. I plan to take him there this evening"

"Good"

"No John, it's not good. I want to go back to Baker Street"

"Stop sulking, Sherlock. If you go back to Baker Street I can't protect you, you'd be a sitting target for this guy." John glanced again at Mycroft "I'm assuming Banks is as good as your file says he is, which means he's not going to be a pushover."

"Trained by the best" Mycroft replied quietly "And something of a fitness fanatic, even when he was in prison"

"Great" John stared for a minute at the floor, thinking. "Okay. Mycroft, you'll need that patient transport, he can't travel by car. When you get there I need you to make sure you both have new, untraceable mobile phones. Sherlock's number is too well known, it's on the website, and yours, Mycroft, may be compromised too." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he handed to the man standing on the other side of the bed.

"That's my new phone number. My other phone is turned off and stashed at the flat, I'll take Sherlock's phone and do the same with that." He glanced at Sherlock, holding out his hand to take the phone, nodding as the other man handed it over. "Then, can you arrange for secure internet access and a laptop? Sherlock's going to need that."

"Am I? Why?"

"Because you'll need something to do, and we can't risk Banks tracing you so everything has to be locked down as tight as possible."

"And what will you be doing?" Mycroft asked blandly.

"I'll be looking for Banks, with a little help from my friends" He laughed at the twin expressions of chagrin on the brothers' faces "And that's all you're getting, for now at least"

"I'm not happy about this, John." Sherlock sulked, glaring at his flatmate.

"Me neither Sherlock, I'd much rather you had not gone haring off after a gunman, getting yourself shot. Maybe next time you'll listen to me when I'm yelling at you"

"Is there anything else you need?" Mycroft forestalled the snarky comment he could see forming on his brother's lips.

"Actually, yes. I'm not happy about Mrs Hudson staying at Baker Street, have you got somewhere nice you can send her?"

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes, Mycroft."

After a moment's consideration, Mycroft agreed, and promised to send a car for their landlady within the hour.

The three men talked a while longer, until they were interrupted by the sound of a text message on John's new phone. He looked down at the screen and nodded.

"Right, I've got to be off." He looked at his friend. "I'll be in touch – and if you can stand to work with your brother, maybe you can turn that genius brain of yours to working out what Banks' next move is likely to be"

He was almost at the door when Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"John – be careful"

"Always"

O*O*O

The message had said _'Outdoor table, the Garden Café, Regent's Park 15.00'_.

As John sat with his hands wrapped around a cup of tea, he wasn't sure who he was expecting to meet. All of his calls that morning were received with varying degrees of surprise and disbelief, but those guys he had managed to get hold of had agreed to help. There had been a few people whose numbers were no longer in service, and one call had left him wishing he had made more effort to keep in touch, as he had to endure the tears and accusations of a grieving widow whose husband couldn't adjust to life back in civvy street.

Pushing down regrets, he sipped at the cooling liquid, his eyes skimming the passers-by, looking for a familiar face. A sudden movement of air behind his chair alerted him to the arrival of his contact. A soft voice spoke, just behind his ear.

"Captain Watson, I understand you're looking for a Ghost"


	4. Enter The Black Knight

**Sorry you've had to wait so long for this – I couldn't untangle the story, I'm still not sure it's right. Please review and tell me what you think – good or bad, but if it's bad please be gentle…**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock, John et al – only my original character and the story line.**

The silence in the Whitehall office was almost deafening, and for once Mycroft Holmes was not finding comfort in familiar surroundings.

He had left his brother seething in his hospital bed, still trying to convince everyone that he was fit enough to travel by car, but Mycroft had read in Doctor Watson's face the absolute certainty that no good would come of allowing Sherlock to get his own way over this.

His initial actions on his return to his office had been to arrange for Mrs Hudson to be taken out to the safe house in Hertfordshire, presuming that she would prefer to have something useful to do; he thought she might as well help keep an eye on his brother's health. Not once did Mycroft consider that this wasn't exactly what John had planned for their landlady. Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, once she had recovered from the shock of finding out that John had kept Sherlock's injuries from her, and promising herself all kinds of retribution once this was over, was more than willing to fall in with whatever plans had been made for her.

Anthea came into the office, and deposited two new and unadulterated mobile phones on the desk in front of her boss. Accepting his nod as both thanks and dismissal, she exited as quietly as she came, having barely disturbed the all-encompassing silence.

Picking up first one phone, and then the other, Mycroft sent texts to the number John had given him, identifying each number and assigning it either to himself or Sherlock. He then checked the contacts to make sure Anthea had listed the new numbers on them, and allowed himself a small smile as he noted that on each phone the number of the other was listed simply as 'Holmes'.

This was possibly the first time in his adult life that Mycroft was at a loss as to what his next move should be. As he sat staring into space, both phones pinged with incoming text messages.

'_**Hi Sherlock, sorry you can't play yet, but your time will come – JW'**_

'_**Mycroft, I have a **__**request. I need you to disable your surveillance equipment in 221B - JW'**_

Marking the text on his brother's phone as unread he closed it down, then sat for a moment considering John's request. A slight frown dinted his forehead, then picking up his new phone he replied

'_**Is this wise? – MH'**_

The response was immediate and quite definite.

'_**Absolutely imperative, trust me – JW'**_

Pressing a button on the intercom on his desk Mycroft instructed Anthea to get Latimer on the line.

Latimer was a tall, gawky thirty year old, a member of Mycroft's surveillance team since leaving university. He reminded the government man of his younger brother, the only difference being the degree of deference and politeness Latimer gave to a man of Mycroft's standing – so refreshingly different from his brother's blatant rudeness.

The ringing of his desk phone broke into his reverie, and he reached across and picked up the receiver.

"Yes"

"I have Latimer on the line, Sir" Anthea's voice was crisp and business-like.

"Thank you. Put him through." Mycroft listened as the line clicked and the connection was made.

"Mr Holmes? You wished to speak to me?"

"Latimer, yes. Who is on surveillance duty with you tonight?"

"Collymore, sir. He's on a break at the moment, due back soon."

"Good. Now, listen carefully. I want you to rig the system link in my brothers flat so that it gives the appearance of being live, when actually the connection is dead – can you do that?"

There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone, then

"Yes Sir, it can be done, but it may take a few hours. I would need to find some of the old surveillance recordings to give the appearance of normality… sorry; can you hold please, Sir?"

Mycroft heard the sound of the control room door opening, and a hushed, slightly muffled conversation. He smiled, knowing his trust in this man had not been misplaced as he heard the young operative explain to Collymore that he was in the middle of a call to his new girlfriend, asking that the other man give him ten minutes or so, suggesting he might go and get them both a coffee. Collymore's response was a dirty chuckle, and a warning not to get caught flirting on company time as he left the room again.

"Sorry about that, Sir" Latimer's voice was once more clear but quiet "I assumed you want as few people to know about this as possible."

"Quite so"

"I'm due a break soon, I could use that time to search the archives and get things set up in the background" he paused as if considering for a moment, then continued "Once that's in place, it will only take five minutes or so to switch over to the recording and disable the live feed."

"Excellent!" Mycroft's approval was clear in his tone "I wish to know the minute you have completed your task. I am sure I don't need to tell you that this must remain undisclosed to anyone else – you speak to no-one but me, understood?"

"Yes, Sir"

Cutting the connection Mycroft sat back in his chair, and reaching for his mobile opened a new message. He was interrupted by his desk phone ringing once more, and with a sigh he picked it up.

"Sir, the reception staff called to say that a parcel for you was delivered by courier to the front desk, the label says from Dr John Watson. I've asked them to bring it up."

Thanking her somewhat distractedly, he frowned and started to type his message.

'_**Will advise when surveillance is disabled. What is in the parcel you have sent over? – MH**_

The response was swift, and chilling

'_**Nothing sent. Be careful – JW'**_

The speed at which Mycroft moved belied his usual indolence. He crossed the room and flung open the office door in time to see the young receptionist enter through the door on the far side of the outer office. As he opened his mouth to utter a warning, there was a loud crack, and a flash of flame, as the incendiary device in the parcel detonated. Screams and smoke filled the room as quick thinking Anthea hit the panic button.

O*O*O

On the corner of Whitehall and Richmond Terrace a tourist looked up from his perusal of his newly acquired London A-Z, his ears having caught the sound of an explosion. Joining the mass of onlookers that crowded forward, his eyes went immediately to the second floor window, where smoke and flame could be seen licking at the frame around the bomb-proof glass.

As unobtrusively as he could, he pulled a camera phone from his pocket and took a quick succession of photographs – the window, the arriving emergency services, and more importantly the staff evacuating the building. He was watching for one particular face, and was rewarded with a glimpse of it just as the police came forward to move the crowd away. Slipping his phone back into his pocket he followed his quarry until they were a safe distance from the scene of the incident, then he picked up his pace, closing the gap between them, and finally brushing roughly past and almost knocking the woman off her feet.

"I'm so sorry!" he drawled in a mid-west American accent, his hands grasping her arms as if to steady her.

"No, that's okay" she responded, her mind on other things.

He looked closely at her, then with a nod and a smile moved off again. Watching his retreating back, the woman frowned – there was something familiar about him…she just couldn't place what it was.

O*O*O

John stared down at the mobile in his hand, a sinking feeling in his gut as he realised the implications of the arrival of the parcel, and the lack of response to his text. It was obvious that their opponent's second move had been made.

The figure sitting next to him waited patiently, quietly surveying the people passing by the café, and the staff clearing tables. A third person came over carrying a tray with fresh drinks, which he deposited on the table in front of the two men.

"What's happened?" he asked, seeing the look on the Captain's face.

"A parcel has been delivered to Target One, using my name."

"Device?"

John looked at both his companions

"I have to assume so, I'm getting no response"

"Where?" the first of his companions pulled his eyes away from his examination of their surroundings, and now looked keenly at the man next to him.

"Whitehall" John stared back at his mobile, and then came to a decision. "I need to get over to the hospital, to make sure the transfer still goes ahead. I also need to find out if Target One is still viable." He looked at his companions. "Pat, I want you to continue to put feelers out for that ghost; Danny, can you see who else is able to play, get them prepared? I'll let you know as soon as I have a safe meeting place – it may not be the Baker Street flat though, that depends on Target One."

Patrick Donoghue nodded briskly, swallowed down a mouthful of his coffee and left the table, his grin and wave purely for the benefit of onlookers.

Danny Morgan took a little more time to slowly sip at his drink, his eyes taking in the man sitting opposite him, the man who only this morning had miraculously returned from the frozen wastes of his self-imposed exile.

"It's good to have you back, John" he said finally, as the ex-army doctor rose and pocketed his phone. "We thought we'd lost you."

John glanced down, noting the slightly care-worn features, lightened by a boyishly enthusiastic grin.

"I think for a while there, you did" he replied softly, then moved away from the table, gently squeezing his old comrade's shoulder as he passed by. "I'll be in touch"

Danny sat for a while longer finishing his coffee, then got to his feet and pulled his mobile from his pocket. Punching in a number he held it to his ear. The call was answered within a couple of rings, and a broad smile split his face.

"Jim! Any chance your missus will give you a pass to come out and play?"

O*O*O

It took John a moment or so to recognise the fact that his mobile was ringing – the ringtone was bland and unfamiliar. He pulled it from his pocket, a mild bolt of relief shooting through him as he saw the caller ID. As he pushed the button to answer the call, he caught sight of the cabbie watching him in the rear-view mirror.

"Hello mate! How's it going?"

If Mycroft was surprised by John's words or tone, he didn't let on, replying with his usual air of calm

"Where are you now? I assume you cannot talk, so let me tell you I am making my way back to see the family."

"Great! I'm just on my way to the party, so I'll see you there, okay? Cheers mate!" with a smirk he closed off the call, grinning as he pictured Mycroft's face at being called 'mate' twice in the space of a minute – not a normal occurrence John guessed.

As a precaution he had asked to be dropped off outside an old converted house in Norfolk Place. If the cabbie had taken the time to look as he pulled away, he would have seen John fumbling as if to put a key into the lock, but as soon as the vehicle disappeared from view he ran lightly back down the steps and marched briskly in the direction of Praed Street and St Mary's Hospital.

The security outside Sherlock's door scrutinised John as he walked towards them, but made no move to detain him. Mycroft was already there, sitting relaxed in a comfortable chair next to Sherlock's bed, listening to Sherlock complaining that he could do more good in London than in Hertfordshire. Running a practiced eye over the monitors and then over the man in the bed, John was satisfied that all was as it should be, given the circumstances, but he was less pleased at what he saw in Mycroft. There were a host of little red burn marks on his face, and one hand was carefully wrapped in cotton dressings.

"What was it?"

"An incendiary device" the Government man looked down at his hand "One of our receptionists has lost a hand and probably the sight in both eyes"

"Shit"

"He misjudged his timing" Sherlock looked from his brother to his flatmate "or…"

"No" John shook his head adamantly "This guy's a professional." Running a weary hand over his face he hitched one hip onto the side of the bed. "I would say this was a warning. If Marc Banks wants you two dead, he'll want to do it himself. You" he pointed at Sherlock "got off lucky this time round – he wasn't prepared for you running at him the way you did, and he didn't have a clear shot to finish you off because I was shooting back at him"

He blew out a gusty breath as he looked at the older Holmes brother.

"And you've been equally as lucky. I assume those burns were treated by paramedics?"

"Yes John," a genuine smile flitted onto his face "I had to promise that I would get myself to a hospital to get checked out – as you see, I am here"

"Yeah, and who checked you over?"

"My doctor" Sherlock sulked "I had to watch while he was stripped half naked and his chest and lung functions measured" he threw a glaring look at his flatmate. "And your text wasn't funny, John, this isn't a game!"

The ex-soldier's expression hardened.

"Not to us – never to us, but to Banks? Yeah, and right now he's holding all the aces"

"How so?"

"We have yet to discover his whereabouts, or even if he looks the same as he did when he was released from prison" John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if the action would help to slow his racing thoughts. "He, on the other hand, knows where to find you Mycroft, and I'd be very surprised if he hasn't got both your address and ours"

"Yet you have asked me to take down all surveillance in your flat"

"What?" Sherlock's interest sharpened immediately.

"Yep. Have my reasons for that Mycroft, but at the moment you're just going to have to take my word for it – I need the flat clear of your…" he groped for the least offensive word

"Violation?" his flatmate suggested, smirking at his brother.

"Well I was thinking more along the lines of interference" John said, making eye contact with the man in the chair. "And the less you know, the safer we all will be."

"All" Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at the man perched on the edge of the hospital bed.

"All" he never flinched under that piercing blue gaze.

Sherlock cleared his throat, breaking the tension in the room.

"You said you needed me to have internet access"

"I want you to put your hacking skills to good use. Once you're set up I want as much information as you can find about Banks – anything, Google, Facebook profile, hack directly into his system if you can find him," he looked away from his flatmate "Mycroft, the minute Sherlock finds a way in to Bank's accounts he will be exposed if your IT systems are not ultra-secure"

"I'll ensure they are safe

John nodded and looked at his watch.

"When do you leave for the safe house?"

"Within the hour. The nursing staff are ready; we are just waiting for the transport"

"Okay. I assume the surveillance blackout isn't going to happen for a while now"

"The bomb damaged my assistant's office, and we had smoke ingress into both my office and the corridor outside. Before I left I made sure the work would still be done, so once Sherlock is on his way I'll follow that up."

"What will you do now?" Sherlock's fingers picked absent-mindedly at his blanket.

"Have some things of my own to chase up, I need to speak to Lestrade, then home. When you get set up in the safe house, text me"

Sherlock nodded glumly.

"I'll e-mail…"

"No." John was adamant "Not until I give you the all clear"

Both Holmes brothers frowned slightly at that.

"I need to protect my own system – and that's something you can't do for me."

O*O*O

At the nurse's station, shift change attracted the usual clutch of incoming and outgoing staff, all standing around, talking.

"Who's the VIP patient in the private room down there?" the questioner, a male nurse, pointed down the corridor to where two men stood guarding the door. It appeared he was only making small talk, as he half listened to the answer, but beneath lazily hooded lids dark intelligent eyes scanned the faces around him.

"Dunno," said one young nurse "he's got his own nurses, and no-one's allowed in without the say-so of some other bloke – his brother I think."

"What's wrong with him?"

Another nurse, hearing the question, frowned.

"Can't say for sure, how about you Annabel?" she appealed to her colleague.

"He came in yesterday, that's all I know" Annabel shrugged and picked up the ward papers, sorting them into order by ward and bed number.

"I heard he had some sort of emergency surgery" added the first nurse.

"So," he pushed a bit harder "we're not looking after him?"

Whatever the response, he wasn't listening as his attention was caught by the opening of the door. He watched, his face hidden by a computer screen, as a short but solidly built blond man walked out, moving purposefully past the desk and out towards the exit. He followed his movements until he was out of sight, realising that Annabel was speaking once more.

"Sorry?"

"I said that's a friend of his, other than the brother he's the only person to visit our mystery man" the nurse grinned "You'll need to wake up a bit mate if you're going to last the shift!"

Grinning back at her, he nodded.

"Yeah, better get my mind on my job" he picked up the patient notes and walked in the direction of the main ward – half an hour later the notes were found on a trolley in the corridor, and the male nurse was no-where to be seen.

O*O*O

Sitting in his car, parked unobtrusively in Norfolk Place opposite the ornate metal gates of St Mary's Hospital, Marc Banks watched as the sleek black car pulled out and turned towards Edgware Road. Letting a couple of cars pass in front of him, he pulled out and followed the government vehicle as it made its way back to the Whitehall office, always keeping at least one car between them. In the early evening traffic it was easy to keep the distinctive car in sight.

Five minutes after the departure of the black car, an ambulance, with Patient Transport printed on the side, pulled out of the hospital and headed north to the M1. As it approached Swiss Cottage underground station the vehicle slowed to a halt, and a side door opened. Stepping out, Mycroft straightened his suit jacket, hung his umbrella over his arm, and with a nod to the remaining occupants he slid the door shut and stepped away, watching as it pulled back into the flow of traffic. Once it was out of sight hailed a cab, directing the driver to take him to his house in Knightsbridge.

O*O*O

At a corner table in The Albert pub, just around the corner from New Scotland Yard, John and Greg sat, each with a pint of beer in front of him.

"What trouble has he got himself into this time then?" Greg sounded tired, half expecting to be asked to bail the consulting genius out from yet another situation that his runaway mouth had got him into.

John took a healthy swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling with good humour.

"Seriously Greg? None or at least, nothing you need worry about"

The Detective Inspector almost spat his beer at that. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand he stared at his companion.

"So why is the flat a no-go area?"

"Ah," Looking around at the clientele, he spotted several other police officers. Lowering his voice he continued "Mycroft has asked me to help track down the shooter from the shopping centre…"

"What? Why is he getting involved?"

"I'm not sure that you really want to know, Greg, really. This guy is known to both of them, I can't tell you how, all I can say is it would appear the shooting the other day was designed to get their attention"

Greg stared, dumbstruck.

"Listen mate, all I can tell you is the flat may or may not become a target area. I would feel happier if you didn't call socially, because if we are being watched, I would rather this guy didn't try to use you as leverage"

"And if we get a report of a disturbance?" Greg wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer as he watched John's eyes go slightly out of focus, as if picturing the various likely scenarios.

"Then come armed, and come carefully. No police in the area without body armour and helmets." He pulled his new mobile from his pocket. "And you probably want my temporary number" he flicked through the screens until he came to the 'My Number' listing, showing it to his friend.

Lestrade opened a new contact on his phone and swiftly added John's new details.

"I'll send you a text" the police officer matched words with deed, and the phone chimed. "Save me to your contacts"

John nodded, and was about to when two more texts arrived in quick succession. Flashing an apologetic smile at his companion, he opened them both.

'_**Cameras and listening devices are off – MH'**_

'_**Invite sent for reunion – no response as yet – PD'**_

"And that's my cue to go" Swallowing the remains of his beer, John shoved his phone back in his pocket. "I'll try to keep you in the loop, Greg, but I meant what I said – I don't want you getting hurt because of us"

Hazel eyes gave him a searching look, then he nodded and offered his hand.

"Be careful, John"

They shook hands, and John slipped quietly out of the door. Greg watched through the window until the other man disappeared from sight.

O*O*O

Letting himself in the front door of the Baker Street property, John knew instantly that he wasn't alone. Reaching behind him, to the gun ever present in the waistband of his jeans, he closed the door and moved silently forward. Staying in the shadow, he reached the bottom of the stairs, and leading with his gun, placed his foot on the first step when a sound – suspiciously like a giggle – stopped him.

"If I show my face, will you try to shoot it off?"

John let out a gusty breath.

"Well, if it isn't the Ghost of times past" he laughed softly, putting away his weapon.

"Absolutely!"

O*O*O

On the other side of London, in the penthouse of a converted warehouse complex, Julia Steers, senior HR officer for the Cabinet Office threw herself onto the leather Chesterfield couch and kicked off her shoes. The excitement of the explosion at the office this afternoon had worn off, and now she was just feeling tired and shaky. Reaching into her handbag for her smartphone, she pulled out with it an envelope, her name printed in bold black letters on the front.

Frowning, she opened it, and removed a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. The printed message was unmistakably a threat, and a warning.

'**Julia. If you want your brother's misdemeanours to**** remain hidden from your employer, you will help me. If you know what's good for you****, you will help me anyway – for old time's sake****'**


	5. The White Queen's Strategy

**Disclaimer: Still don't own - still sulking!**

John flicked the light on and grinned up the stairs at his visitor, a slight woman wearing faded drainpipe jeans and a baggy black hoodie. Spikes of platinum blond hair poked out from under the hood, and chocolate brown eyes looked down at him appraisingly.

"Looking well, Captain" her voice was soft and slightly husky.

"Good to see you too" he walked slowly up to join her on the stairs "You're a hard person to find"

"And you ignored my calls John" there was an edge of hurt in her voice "I thought we were friends"

"Yeah, I'm sorry…"

She shook her head. "Not now. You need help – what can I do?"

Nodding towards the flat John edged past her. "Come on in"

Her hand on his arm made him pause and look back at her, his head tilted in enquiry.

"When were you last at home?"

He frowned and checked his watch

"Probably about six hours ago" he murmured, realising just how much had happened since then.

"Come on then" she said with a wink and a cheeky grin "open the door, and follow my lead"

There was a noticeable relaxing of tension in the doctor's shoulders as he opened the door and ushered his guest inside.

As she crossed the threshold, Lieutenant Ellen Baker, formerly of the MI Brigade and attached to 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, grasped John's hand and pulled him through behind her, giggling as she dragged him into the living room. Once in the centre of the room, she swung him round so that he had his back to the window, pulled him into her arms and proceeded to kiss him senseless. Never one to refuse an order, even when given by a subordinate, John readily followed her lead, with only a small portion of his mind wondering where this was leading.

When they finally came up for air, Ellen hugged him, putting her lips close to his ear and whispering "be careful what you say" then she stepped back, running a hand down his arm until she could grasp and squeeze his hand.

"Nice flat" she let her eyes rove around the room "All yours?"

"Got a flatmate" John hitched his hip against the table between the two windows, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his eyes watching her face. He noticed the flick of her eyes towards Sherlock's room.

"That your room?" She asked.

"No" he followed her as she poked her head through the open doorway "Mine's upstairs"

She turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Come on then," he sighed "I'll give you the guided tour"

Ellen stepped around John as they entered his room and pulled him in for another kiss. She chuckled softly as she felt his body react, but kept herself pressed tightly against him. John could feel the heat suffusing his cheeks, even as he pulled her close in his arms.

"If you're serious about me moving in with you, you'll have to get rid of the flatmate" she announced, turning in the circle of his arms, her hands gently running along his forearms.

"Let me talk to him" he tightened his arms, nuzzling into her neck. He felt her shiver and knew he'd managed to elicit a reciprocal reaction from her. He smiled against her skin.

Slowly they broke apart and reluctantly moved back downstairs, wandering back into the living room.

"I don't suppose you've got anything in worth cooking? I'm starved!"

"I…um…" Unable to utter the warning that was racing around his brain, John could only watch in fascination as she walked across the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"John," she sounded resigned "you've got nothing here that I can make a meal with! What's in the freezer?" and she opened that too.

"Don't you ever eat real meals?" she asked as finally she returned to the living room.

"Well, usually we grab a take-away"

Ellen pulled a face.

"Take me out for dinner?" she pouted prettily at him, fluttering her eyelashes like a silent movie heroine, and John choked on a laugh.

"Thai?"

"Great! I just need to use your bathroom"

He pointed her in the right direction, and when she returned he held the door open for her, locking up behind them. Together they clattered back down the stairs, and once out on the street John explained the restaurant was only a couple of streets away, easy to reach on foot. To the casual onlooker they looked like any other courting couple as they headed off along Baker Street towards Park Road, her arm around his waist, his draped casually around her shoulders.

O*O*O

Alighting carefully from the rear door of the ambulance Sherlock sneered disdainfully at the wheelchair the nurse was trying to usher him into, opting instead to walk, albeit slowly and carefully, in through the side door of the safe house.

No sooner had he stepped through the door than Mrs Hudson started scolding him.

"Where is your common sense, young man?" she asked, wagging her finger at him "You should be in the wheelchair that your brother was kind enough to organise for you"

"Mrs Hudson…"

"No, I know – you don't have to tell me, you'd rather suffer than be beholden. I'm inclined to give you a piece of my mind! I'm sure John would be furious to see you struggling to walk."

"Ah" using one hand to balance himself as they walked together towards the large, well-furnished lounge, Sherlock considered his landlady's words. "And I suppose John is just waiting for you to report back to him"

"John" she replied with a voice filled with promise "will get the rough edge of my tongue when next I see him! I had to find out from Mycroft that you had been injured, so I will have a word or two to say to him about keeping me in the dark"

Sherlock grinned. "Quite right too, Mrs Hudson"

"And don't think that lets you off the hook, Sherlock. As I understand it, if you'd only listened to John you wouldn't be in this predicament now, so none of your cheek, d'you hear me?" despite the tone of her words she smiled, and helped him lower himself into the nearest comfortable chair. "Now, you stay there, I'll go make you a nice cup of tea"

As she left the room she heard him mutter something about not being able to move even if he wanted to, and had to suppress a chuckle. He was far too stubborn and pig-headed for his own good.

Taking this opportunity to glance around the room, Sherlock noted that looked like any normal large family room, with a view of the drive and the tree lined suburban road beyond. Running a practiced eye over the window frame he spotted the standard intruder alarms, as well as signs of more covert systems designed to trigger as the obvious alarms are disabled. A sneer settled on his finely chiselled face – if Banks was half as good as his brother seemed to think, neither system would keep him out. He found himself hoping that John's trust in his 'friends' was not misplaced.

The rattle of bone china shook him out of his reverie, and Sherlock looked up to see that Mrs Hudson had pressed Mycroft's minions into service. A huge designer-suited and armed man-mountain was dutifully carrying the tea tray, laden with teapot, cups, saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl. A second minion followed, carrying a cake stand with Mrs Hudson's very special fruit cake. The young man smiled.

"You do know Mycroft isn't visiting" he said cheekily

"Shame on you Sherlock, stop making jokes at your brother's expense after he's been so good as to give us both a safe place to stay"

A cloud passed over the detective's face.

"I'd rather be in Baker Street" he said quietly.

Mrs Hudson poured him a cup of tea and cut a slice of cake, handing them to him with an encouraging smile.

Eat up, then I'll let Mr Hodges here" she tipped her head towards the man-mountain "help you upstairs. They've set up an office for you next to your bedroom"

And just as she knew they would, her words lifted his expression, and she saw the thrill of the chase light up his eyes as he bit greedily into the cake.

O*O*O

Banks sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel in anger and frustration. He had hoped that by following the black car back to Whitehall he could take out his former boss, but to his dismay he watched the car bypass the government building, and carry on up Millbank towards the underground garages where the cars were parked when not in use.

Realising he had fallen for the oldest ruse in the book, and he toyed with the idea of returning to the hospital, but while he knew his covert skills were still good enough to get him back in to the area where the younger Holmes brother was being treated, he understood that he would likely find the room empty, that the bird will have flown.

Plan C then, he thought to himself as he turned his car around, pointing it in the direction of Stratford, and the converted warehouse complex where the penthouse flat boasts a much sought-after view of the Olympic Stadium.

Despite it still being fairly early in the evening, the traffic was flowing easily, and it wasn't long before he was parked just along the street from his target. For a short while he sat and watched the building, noting the pedestrian traffic through the key coded security door, his keen eyesight taking in the socio-economic backgrounds of his quarry's neighbours, studying their reactions to each other as they passed in and out of lobby.

Unhurriedly taking his mobile phone from his pocket, he dialled directory enquiries, and obtained a telephone number – now, with a humourless smile he punched it into the keypad, and pressed the call button.

In her flat Julia Steers jumped, startled, as the telephone rang, and she stared at it as if it were poisonous. Feeling jittery since finding the letter in her handbag, she considered ignoring it, but the insistent trilling grated on her already shredded nerves. With a shaking hand she snatched up the receiver.

"Hello?" her voice came out croaky, her mouth was too dry.

"Julia, remember me?"

At the sound of his voice Julia's heart sunk, and a lump of ice formed in her stomach.

"What do you want?"

"Aren't you even a little bit glad to hear from me?"

"Stop it, Mark, please stop" tears were not far away now. Remembrances of shared dinners, plans made and nights of passion welled up in her chest, and her breath caught on a sob. "Why are you calling me?"

"I wanted to hear your voice, sweetheart"

"I thought the terms of your release on licence meant that…"

"Licence? Did you really think they could dictate how I live my life?" this last was said angrily, his voice a deep, angry growl.

Please, Mark, you're frightening me!" fear forced the tears to flow, and she mopped frantically at her eyes. "We'll both get in trouble if they find out you've called me"

"And who's going to tell them, my little Julia? You?" he snarled "No, my sweet, you won't tell. You value your job, and you value your brother's freedom – remember that Julia! _Your __brother__'__s__freedom_"

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Banks leaned forward slightly in his seat, looking up at the windows of the building, but there was no sign of the woman he was tormenting. Maybe he would have to pay her a visit – but not tonight. Tonight he was content to just remind her how much she had to lose if news of her brother crimes reached the ears of her paymasters.

"Now, this is what I want…"

O*O*O

The restaurant in Balcombe Street was fairly empty, but the background music made it noisy enough to camouflage their discussion. As John and Ellen sat down, the waiter handed them menus and took their drinks order.

"Want to order for me?" she looked around at their intimate surroundings, their table was tucked away in a dimly lit corner, and from this vantage point they could watch every point of access and egress, monitor the movements of both staff and diners.

John cast an eye over the menu, and when the drinks arrived ordered a mixed starter for two, and a selection of dishes to follow. They sat discussing the décor, the music, and the location of the restaurant, and while they did John took the time to take in the changes in the woman sitting opposite him. With her hood now pushed down, her spiky, elfin cut hair was so different to the waist length chestnut locks he recalled her having when they served together in Afghanistan.

The starter delivered, Ellen picked up a stick of Gai Satay and took a healthy bite of the peanut sauce covered chicken, chewing thoughtfully.

"Pat said you had trouble. I'd say that's an understatement, John"

"The main targets are my flatmate and his brother"

"Ah yes, the Detective and the British Government!" she pulled a face at his shocked expression "I didn't lose the ability to read when I left the army – I've followed your blog right from the beginning. Do you know your antagonist?"

Slowly, as they ate their meal, John recounted the events of the last thirty six hours, leaving nothing out. Ellen listened intently, nodding occasionally, asking questions and teasing out more detail as the need arose, so that by the time they were ordering dessert she was certain she knew all there was to know.

John waited patiently, knowing his companion would share her thoughts when she was ready and not before. Throughout the evening they had both watched the room, and passing trade had been steady, but now, as dessert was served, the serious night time diners were starting to flow through the doors.

Tucking into her Honey Crunchy Pudding Ellen startled the blond doctor out of his reverie suddenly declaring

"Your flat is bugged"

"Mycroft assured me he'd turned off his surveillance"

"Does he usually bug your bathroom?"

John stared. From her jeans pocket Ellen pulled a small grey box, about the size of a matchbox, and dropped it on the table between them. It looked like a snuff box, but with a small black button on the side.

"Meet 'Rover', my electronic sniffer dog. Your flat is alive with surveillance equipment, and I doubt very much it's your flatmate's brother" She pointed to the button "Press that button, and if there is live equipment it will vibrate very softly – you need it in your hand to be able to tell, any stronger reaction and it would register as interference on the spycams"

John whistled silently through his teeth.

"You have two choices here John, you can either move out" she watched his face, reading reluctance in his expression "or you can pretend you don't know, but we'll have to use somewhere else to get a team together"

"What do you suggest?"

"Go with the latter – while he's watching you in Baker Street hopefully he won't look for you elsewhere"

"Are you sure about the bugs in the bathroom?"

"No doubt" she pulled a face and crossed her eyes "He'll get to hear a lot of interesting noises – I can't tell if he has cameras in there, but hey! You've always kept yourself fit, always had a good bod as I recall"

John nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment.

"And of course, Robbie knows what my work entails – has entailed in the past – he may not like it particularly, but is pragmatic enough to know it's only a job"

At mention of Ellen's long-suffering husband, John blushed again at his reaction to her kisses, but she caught the look and laughed.

"Nice to know I haven't lost my touch!" Still smiling she held out her hand "Can I see the bullet that was dug out of the shopper?"

John pulled the evidence bag out of his pocket and carefully, out of sight of the other diners, tipped the bullet into her upturned palm. After a fairly lengthy study of the item in her hand, she pulled out her mobile and scrolled through her contacts. Satisfied she'd found the right person, she quickly hit the dial button, waiting as the connection was made and listening to the ringing at the other end.

She was on the verge of hanging up when a sleepy voice crackled in her ear.

"Ellen?"

"Malcolm, I need your expertise"

"Hello Malcolm, how are you? Long-time no see! Jesus Ellen – we don't speak for over a year and then suddenly you need me?" The voice was a cross between a snarl and exasperated resignation.

"As I recall you told me never to darken your door again Malc, but I really need your help here. I have a bullet you may be interested in – I want to know more about the gun that fired it and its owner"

"Right now?"

"Can I come to you tomorrow? I'll have a friend, and a tale, and I need discretion and, if possible, answers"

"Always – you never change Ellen Baker, never. Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock – don't be late"

Her thanks went unheard as the sound of the receiver crashing onto the cradle leapt from her handset. She looked up to see John watching her.

"Care to tell me?" he asked softly "I mean, what I could hear of his voice didn't sound exactly friendly"

"He's still pissed with me for not attending his son's funeral – I couldn't make him understand that I couldn't get home from Strandavollur in time"

"Army?"

"2 Para. Training accident"

"Shit" wiping a hand over his face, John attracted the waiters' attention and signalled that they wanted the bill. While they waited he continued "As for my little problem - do you have a plan?"

"We stay tonight at yours – I'll play drunk, so you can drop me on your couch to sleep" She stared around the room. "Tomorrow we see Malcolm; you contact Pat and Danny, and anyone they've managed to bring on board. We'll find somewhere to set up a base of operations, and see if we can't give this guy Banks a taste of his own medicine"


	6. To Kill The King

**Sorry - it's taken me a month to update this - no excuses, just real life getting in the way...that and re-writes LOL!  
Hope you like it, if you do please review.  
Disclaimer: Don't own, no earnings of any kind made from this story**

Flashing a bright smile and her security pass, Julia made her way past the extra security personnel and swiped her card through the electronic reader. Despite the early hour, several colleagues greeted her, but she was distracted and acknowledged them mechanically as she made her way to the lifts and her third floor office.

Sinking into her chair, she stared at her blank computer screen; her mind was eight miles and twelve hours away as she replayed over and over Mark Banks' telephone call the previous evening.

"_I want Mycroft Holmes' address"_

"_But he's…"_

"_I WANT that address sweet Julia," the voice, sibilant and menacing, was insistent. "It's a small price to pay."_

The sound of a throat being cleared snapped her back to the present, and she looked up to see one of the security officers hovering in the doorway.

"Miss Steers? Are you alright?" he asked, a look of mild concern on his face.

"Oh, um, yes Pete, I'm fine – just thinking." She forced another bright smile.

"Mr Holmes would like to see you. He sent me up here when you didn't answer his call."

Julia looked down at the instrument on her desk – she had neither heard its insistent ringing nor seen the flashing light that indicated a voicemail message had been received.

"Oh lord!" she muttered, flustered "I must have been a million miles away"

"You're not the only one," Pete offered sympathetically "I think everyone is still a bit shell-shocked after yesterday."

Julia nodded "And I imagine Mr Holmes wants to talk about Trish Samuels"

"Poor kid, she hadn't been with us long."

"I know." Her vision blurred slightly as she remembered the girl's fresh from school enthusiasm. "I was the one that interviewed her." she rose to her feet, opening a draw and pulling out her notepad and pen. Briskly crossing to the door, she followed the security officer out, across the corridor and down the stairs to the second floor.

The police forensics and army bomb specialists had long finished their work of evidence collection, and yet, despite the hard work of the overnight cleaning staff, there was still an acrid smell in the air that caught at the back of the throat. Julia hurried into the outer office, through the newly replaced door.

"Mr Holmes is waiting for you" Anthea pressed a button on the intercom. "Miss Steers is here, Sir"

"Thank you, send her in"

Julia knocked and entered the oak panelled office. Mycroft looked up and smiled.

"Thank you for coming Miss Steers."

O*O*O

John moved around the kitchen quietly, not sure if his guest was actually still asleep. As he sipped his tea he marvelled once again at his friend's acting abilities, knowing that anyone watching last night would have been convinced of her inebriated state as she stumbled around and giggled while he removed her jeans and sweatshirt before tucking her up in blankets on the couch.

At the sound of movement from the living room he poured a second mug of tea, looking up at the dishevelled figure that appeared in the doorway still wrapped in a blanket.

"Here" he said softly, pushing the mug towards her.

She winced, screwing up her eyes and shuffling over to sit at the kitchen table. John watched as she wrapped her hands around the mug, carefully sipping at the hot sweet liquid.

"Can I use your shower?"

"Help yourself"

With a brief smile she finished her drink and shuffled back to retrieve her neatly folded clothes from the back of the couch, dropping the blanket and heading down the hall.

John had thoughtfully hung a clean towel on the door hook, and by the time Ellen returned, showered and dressed in last night's clothes, he'd made toast and a fresh pot of tea.

"How's the head?" he asked, playing up to her act.

She groaned.

"Aspirin?"

"Paracetamol, sorry."

"That'll do."

He pushed two capsules out of their foil packing into her hand, and watched as she palmed them, pretending to wash them down with the tea before biting appreciatively into her breakfast.

"How much did I have to drink last night?"

"A lot – far too much in fact"

She shrugged. "Sorry sweetheart."

"Yeah, well, don't forget your Dad's expecting us this morning"

Ellen groaned and looked at her watch. Nine fifteen. She pulled a face.

"Hope you're feeling strong. Dad's bound to give you a lecture about looking after his little girl."

"Yeah well, if he knows how much you drink it's hardly surprising."

John's voice was harsher than he'd intended, and Ellen's eyes flicked to his face, narrowing slightly.

"I won't tell him if you don't. Ready?" She rose as John grabbed his coat and keys, and together they headed out onto Baker Street.

In the cab the atmosphere was a little strained. Ellen was busily sending texts while John stared out of the window, cursing his unruly tongue. He needed Ellen's help, and snapping at her for something that is hardly her fault is not the way to get it. He was just trying to figure out the right words to apologise when her slender hand reached over and clasped his, squeezing gently. He raised his eyes to hers.

"Your sister still drinking?"

He nodded.

"Sorry to hear that, John. That can't be easy to deal with."

"That's still no reason to snap at you."

"No problem." She leaned across and dropped a soft kiss on his cheek. "Put it to the back of your mind now – you need to be sharp."

John nodded. "Tell me about this guy we're going to see."

"Malcolm Ashby, weapons expert. He has contacts that even I'm happy to know nothing about – safer that way – but he's the one person I'd trust with this part of the puzzle. I already told you about his son, so just be careful what you say – I'm not sure how he'll react, but cut him some slack, Jez was his only child, followed in his dad's footsteps and was killed by a stupid accident before he really had a chance to live. I knew him through Malc, but I worked with him when he did a basic Intel course in Chicksand."

"Is that what you do now, Intel training?"

"Occasionally. Y'know sometimes when they run these courses it pays to have a lecturer who's actually done the job, not just learned the theory!" Ellen grinned as the cab pulled up in front of a row of post-war terraced houses in Whitechapel. She moved across the pavement and knocked at the door as John paid the driver, then together they waited.

O*O*O

Malcolm was a big man, a gentle giant, and although his welcome was a little chilly he led them through the house and into the kitchen, where a pot of freshly brewed coffee and warm croissants were waiting.

"At least you can still tell the time" he muttered grumpily, pouring mugs of coffee for his guests, and passing the plate of rich, buttery pastries. "So what's going on?"

Ellen wrapped her hands around her mug and took a sip of the steaming liquid before introducing John, and then she sat back and motioned to him to tell his story.

Malcolm listened intently, much in the way Ellen had the previous evening, although unlike the lady he had nothing to say until John had finished speaking. Getting up to refresh his drink he spoke over his shoulder.

"Ellen tells me you have a bullet"

"Uh, yeah" John dug into his pocket and retrieved the oddly shaped twisted metal, tipping it into the other man's outstretched hand.

The silence stretched as keen eyes examined the projectile from every angle. Ellen watched as the former armourer and field weapons expert took in the details – size, weight, design – seeing the interest sparking in his world-weary features. At last he looked up at his guests and smiled a little grimly.

"Like I said Ellen, you never change," the voice was gruff, with a hint of hidden emotion, but there was no animosity in his expression. "You still like to bring me puzzles."

"Knew you couldn't resist, Malc" she smiled up at him, "and this one's a beauty!"

"And how many people dead?" he switched his gaze to John.

"One."

"But two shot?" he frowned and closed his eyes. "Lucky, very lucky; this looks like it was designed to screw through whoever it hit, tearing its way through internal organs." The eyes flashed open and stared challengingly.

"My friend was running full pelt towards the guy when he fired." John explained. "Caught the gunman off guard so, rushed shot, no time to aim. That, and the fact that only an idiot would run at an armed man like that."

"Idiot then is he, this friend of yours?"

"He's a genius – there's a fine line."

A rich chuckle escaped as Malc picked the bullet up once more.

"Can I keep hold of this?"

John glanced at Ellen, who gave a sharp nod.

"Yeah sure, only I'm supposed to give it back to the police at some time – evidence if we ever bring him to trial."

"You'll not bring the owner of this type of ammo to trial lad; he'll either succeed and flee the country or die trying." Malcolm stood, waiting expectantly until his guests followed suit. "I'll help solve your puzzle Dr Watson, if at the end of it I can keep this little gem, and the gun designed to fire it."

"If you're right, then keeping the bullet shouldn't be a problem." John agreed with a smile, shaking the big man's hand. "Can't promise the gun, but I can promise I'll try."

Evidently that was exactly what the armourer had wanted to hear – no false promises.

O*O*O

Sherlock wish the sound of pained groaning would stop; it was hurting his head and making his teeth ache! It was only as full consciousness returned that he realised that the despised sound was coming from his own lips, and that the ache was due to his clenched jaw as he tried to stifle the signs of weakness.

"There now, you really overdid it yesterday, didn't you?"

One grey eye cracked open and scanned the immediate area around him. Mrs Hudson stood at the bedside holding a cloth-covered tray, and over her left shoulder he could see one of Mycroft's hired nurses.

"Did you drug me?" Sherlock demanded, bringing both hands up to grip at his pounding head. He wasn't impressed when he heard his landlady chuckle.

"We didn't need to, dear. You fell asleep at the computer, and dear Mr Hodges had to carry you through and put you to bed."

"I need to check your wound and clean that chest drain" the nurse stepped forward and started to pull down the covers.

Sherlock snatched them back, hissing as the pain in his chest increased with the sudden movement.

"Mr Holmes..."

"Sherlock dear, you've got nothing I haven't seen before"

"No!" the patient struggled to rise from the bed, only to be stopped by the sight of the diminutive septuagenarian locking the connecting door that led to his 'office'. "What are you doing?"

"Carrying out your brother's instructions" she responded with a smile "and if you don't behave I'll let John know – it'll worry him I don't doubt, but he'll be cross if I don't tell him."

Pouting, Sherlock stared sulkily at the two women. He knew full well what was being implied – that John would be distracted, and therefore more likely to get hurt. Huffing loudly he pushed the covers back down, allowing the nurse access to the tubes and the attached clear plastic bag.

With swift, professional movements the young lady removed the bag, cleaning the end of the tube before attaching a fresh bag and clipping on the shoulder strap.

"This looks good, Mr Holmes. When you take a break this afternoon we can run a chest x-ray, and if it's clear we can probably remove the drain altogether." She indicated the portable x-ray machine in the corner "Your brother provided everything to help your recovery"

"And I suppose you think I should be grateful?" came the snarky response.

"Oh no, Mr Holmes, he assured me you wouldn't be."

O*O*O

John and Ellen walked in silence down Valence Road, she slipping naturally into 'girlfriend' mode, and he following her lead. Passing under the railway bridge Ellen paused and looked around.

"Over there" she said finally, pointing to a railway arch, walled up, with a tatty green painted wooden door, and a letting agency sign above it.

There were a multitude of people making their way in the world using the converted arches as business premises, mostly car repairs or garages, occasionally a potter's workshop with its kiln to keep the cold out. On closer inspection they could see a notice freshly pasted over the To Let sign, advertising the arrival of 'Nightwatching, Electronic Security Specialists', and in smaller lettering 'Trade Only, by appointment'.

"Nice choice of name" Ellen spoke to the shadow in the darkness as they stepped through from the bright light of day into the unlit unit.

"Thought it sounded good" came the response, coinciding with the snap of the light switch that flooded the room with a sickly yellow glow and revealed a small, wiry man with weathered, suntanned skin, dressed in faded jeans and a sweatshirt, neatly hand-painting a sign to hang outside. Catching John's glance he smiled.

"Window dressing. If you don't put a sign up, they'll come and be nosey – if you talk to them while you're hanging it they'll leave you alone more often than not"

"Sounds like you've done this before" John smiled and held out his hand "John Watson"

"That's Captain John Watson to you H" Ellen added with a smile as the two men shook hands. "And this is H McCormick, sapper, formerly Royal Engineers"

"Good to meet you H – short for…?"

"Horatio" the other man laughed depreciatively "Parents wanted me to join the Navy"

"So why didn't you?"

"They wouldn't have me – couldn't cure me sea-sickness!"

"And if you believe that John, you're an idiot."

Now it was John's turn to laugh.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've been called that El, but even I'm not that gullible"

He looked around appreciatively and the other signs of 'window dressing', the desk with papers and order pads, the shelves on one wall with interesting looking boxes, and the comfy chairs for the 'clients' to relax in. More subtly there were lots of 'ledges and edges' that could be used to half sit on or against, and a white board sales chart that – John had no doubts – could be flipped round and used to plan and co-ordinate their actions.

"I've already texted Pat to meet us here this afternoon – 14.00 hours. Who else have you got on board?" Ellen hitched a hip onto the edge of the desk and looked expectantly at John.

"Danny Morgan. I gave him the list of people I'd sounded out earlier; he was going check back on them – two were maybes, Pat, Georgie and Dan himself were keen to play. I'll text him and get them along for a briefing."

"Six definite, two maybes, is that it?"

"Sherlock's okay for distance work – research, stuff like that. Told him he can't come home 'til he's fit." A thought occurred, and he looked up from his mobile. "I need to safeguard my laptop."

"Remove it from the flat then."

John winced.

"I was hoping Sherlock could feed us information." He confessed ruefully "It'll give him something to do, and keep us up to date. Not so easy by text."

Ellen chewed her bottom lip, staring at the floor.

"What about Jamie?" H offered carrying a stepladder through the door and setting it up outside. Walking back in he added "He's ideally placed; he only lives a mile or so away – easy for his wheelchair. We could set him up with a computer here."

John frowned and looked from one to the other, seeing Ellen's eyes light up.

"Brilliant H! John, can your flatmate's brother arrange for us to have a computer?"

"Will it be…?"

"Safe? As houses. I have a few little tricks up my sleeve – unfortunately not the kind that can make your laptop invisible to Mr Banks, but certainly enough to protect a unit here."

"And Jamie?"

"One of ours, John." H explained, "Lost both his legs to an IED out in Afghanistan a couple of years ago. Good lad, comms and surveillance specialist so he knows his way around a computer – he'll be glad to help."

Ellen nodded enthusiastically "One of ours in more ways than one, eh H? Your nephew isn't he?"

"The wife's cousin's boy. Young, but sensible. I'll pop round to see him once I've hung this, bring him back with me." And he shouldered his way out of the door carrying his newly painted sign.

"Right, let's see what we can do about that computer." John pulled out his mobile and dialled Mycroft's number.

O*O*O

Julia stared at the screen of her smartphone. _'Message sent'_. The headache she'd felt building up since her meeting with Mycroft Holmes was developing to epic strength now, and the nervous butterflies in her stomach were causing her to regret the sandwich she'd had for lunch.

With a start she realised she still had Mycroft's personnel file open on her screen, and quickly closed it down. A second screen remained open, one showing a picture of a fresh faced eighteen year old that had opted to try for a career in Government instead of going to university. Now she was unlikely to have a career of any kind, hampered as she was by the loss of her dominant hand and the sight in one eye. The hospital told her she had been very lucky – Julia doubted the young girl felt the slightest bit inclined to agree.

Stretching a hand across her desk she picked up her telephone.

"Hello Janey? We've got a meeting booked this afternoon, would you mind if we postponed? No, no nothing's happened, yes, we're all jumpy at the moment…" she rubbed at her forehead as she spoke. "No, I've just got a migraine building up, I think I just need to go home and lay in a dark room."

She listened as the voice at the end of the phone murmured sympathetically, agreeing that the meeting wasn't so very important, and wishing her well. In relief she finished the call and shut down her computer. Everything else could wait until she felt better.

O*O*O

Sherlock glanced to his left, watching the information search stream a light bar across the computer screen. He was currently searching for any data relating to Marc Joseph Banks, with a sub search for any close variation on that name. So far everywhere was coming up blank, but he was neither surprised nor disheartened – rather he relished pitting his wits against this man again.

On the second screen, CCTV images. He had studied the images from the shopping centre, and the car park (he winced a little as he saw with awful clarity the moment he had run straight into the madman's bullet), now he was uploading views of Whitehall.

Easing himself out of his chair he walked carefully across to the printer. A set of glossy black and white images were sitting in the collection tray, clearly showing the face of the would-be killer. Marc Banks hadn't bothered to alter his appearance; he wanted them to know who they were up against.

Pinning them to the board beside his desk, Sherlock returned to the computer screen to start his search for clues to the bomb attack, his eyes keenly scrutinising the pedestrian traffic through the Government heartland.

Huffing frustratedly as his observations were interrupted by the shrill tones of a text alert, he snatched up his phone, freezing the image on the screen as he read.

'_Baker St compromised electronically. Arranging different email contact point. – JW'_

'_Not sending to M. – SH' _

'_Course not. Standby – will txt contact address soon. – JW'_

"Mr Holmes."

The nurse had entered while Sherlock read John's first message, but he had studiously ignored her. She was unfazed.

"Mr Holmes, Mrs Hudson is making you a cup of tea, so I thought now would be a good time to x-ray your lung."

"Busy"

"Mr Holmes…"

He turned to look over his shoulder at her.

"You have taken this job because you need money for…" he paused, his eyes flicking over her "ah yes, you want to be able to pay off a large portion of your mortgage – no, your rent, in advance. Travelling?"

"Not really…"

"No, you've signed up to a charity." He stared coolly up at her. "You should talk to my flatmate, I believe he has friends in the organisation you want to work for."

"How?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did your brother tell you?"

"Your missing ring told me," Sherlock indicated her left hand. "Fiancé left you, what, three months ago? You had a good job but too many memories attached to the workplace so you gave it up, you don't want to give up a career you find satisfying and you don't want to waste those years of training. Bank nursing isn't enough of a challenge so, Nurse Moore…..it has to be Médecins Sans Frontières."

The young woman stood and gaped at him.

"Oh Sherlock, can't you behave for five minutes?" Mrs Hudson's admonition was tempered with a smile and the production of the promised cup of tea. "Once your x-ray's done…"

"Not happening" Sherlock cut in, his attention returning to the screen.

Nurse Moore opened her mouth to argue, but Mrs Hudson held up a hand, a gentle twinkle in her eyes as she reached around to place the teacup on the desk in front of the recalcitrant young man.

"Shame, because the sooner that drain's removed, the closer you are to going home to Baker Street."

Sherlock's head came up, and for a moment he was absolutely still, then crashing his fist down on the desk he leapt to his feet, gritting his teeth against his body's protest at the rough treatment.

"Come on then." He snapped "Let's get this…this…_procedure_ over."

O*O*O

Mycroft was as good as his word, and within an hour of John's call had arranged delivery of some top-of-the-range computer equipment, ready loaded with the highest quality protection software.

H returned to the unit shortly afterwards, walking alongside a young wheelchair-bound double amputee, with long curly ginger hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a short scraggy beard. The pale blue eyes were alive with good humour, the lines around his eyes as much to do with laughter as with the pain of his injuries.

Jamie wheeled to halt in front of John and threw a cheeky salute.

"Private Jamie Robson reporting for duty, Sir."

"Stand easy, Private" John returned the salute.

Jamie's grin widened, and he shook John's proffered hand.

"Jesus, you don't know how refreshing that is, Sir!" he exclaimed "some people will almost strangle themselves with their tongues trying not to say 'stand' or 'legs' or 'run'."

"Makes them uncomfortable," John agreed, "remind me to introduce you to my flatmate – a more irreverent person you're unlikely to meet – give him a taboo subject and he'll be sure to drag it into every possible discussion if it suits his purpose."

The door opened again, and Pat Donoghue stepped through into the room carrying a tatty olive green backpack. He was closely followed by short, solidly build man, whose sharp eyes took in everything in the room in seconds.

"Pat, Georgie" John greeted them with a handshake then turned back to Jamie. "You'll meet the guys properly when we're all here – first thought I want you to have a look at the computer." He gestured to the table where H was already unpacking and connecting the hardware and cables.

"Don't power it up yet." Ellen called from across the room. She was digging into the backpack. "Pat collected this from home for me – and there's a little gizmo in here to alert us to hackers with enough time to shut them down before they can do any damage."

Carrying a small black box and some power cables, she climbed around behind the main tower and plugged one cable into a spare USB port. Attaching this to the box she plugged it into the power socket and flipped a switch on the side. A small green light glowed on the side.

"Right, if anyone tries to get into this system that box does two things." Climbing back out she stood between John and Jamie and counted the points off on her fingers. "Firstly it holds them outside of our system and automatically saves everything you're working on as it shuts the system down. Secondly, it sends an echo back to trace the IP address, which may give us a fighting chance to find him."

"I thought the guy we're after is ex-Military Intel" Georgie asked, looking dubiously at the box.

"Yeah, but it's fairly recent development, he was inside when it trialled. And this is a shiny new fourth generation box – the best yet." She handed Jamie a small blue pen-drive. "If the system shuts itself down, you won't be able to re-boot until it has neutralised the threat, which basically means it will confuse the signals and send the hacker off on a different course. When you open it again it will ask you for a key – that is the key. It'll unlock your system and bring back everything you were working on."

"Got it" Jamie tossed the drive in his hand before sliding it into his jeans pocket. "I've been building my own secure website over the last few months. Me and H thought it would be best to use that as its unknown."

Ellen nodded and looked over her shoulder, noting that two more had joined them. She flicked a glance at John, who nodded briefly and walked across to sit on the edge of the desk.

"Thanks for coming everyone. Now, I know you all know Ellen – she's the one common denominator in this group, but for the benefit of everyone else we'll do a quick intro. Who we are and what our speciality is – or was" Noting the nods of assent he started the process. "Right, you all know me – and for the record Jamie, it's John not Sir – not in the army anymore, still a doctor though, but try not to get hurt."

A ripple of laughter ran round the room. Jamie nodded.

"Jamie Robson, computers."

"H McCormick – I'll run the office here, acquire or fix any electronics and generally gofer."

"Danny Morgan. With Pat here I work obs and infiltration – under the enemy's eye so to speak" He indicated the man standing next to him.

"George Dunn – friends here call me Georgie – covert ops."

"That leaves me last then" the accent was pure Geordie "Jim Wainwright, also covert ops, and a little tech work so if you need any help Jamie, just shout."

John made himself comfortable and called the group to order. While the introductions were being made Ellen had started to draw a timeline of events on the whiteboard, and John used this to illustrate and explain the situation so far.

"Do we know what he looks like?" Dan shifted in his seat to get a clearer view of the board.

"As soon as Jamie's got the computer up and running I'll get Sherlock or Mycroft to send any recent pictures. I need Mycroft to send the file over electronically – the hard copy I had is still securely hidden in the flat, in a room that is now under surveillance by Banks."

"So what now?" Jim asked

"You send this to your flatmate" Jamie interrupted John's response "Let's get the intel we need" he handed over a slip of paper with an email address.

Pulling out his phone John tapped the keys slowly and carefully, finally sending the message.

"Now we look at how best to use our resources." John picked up the question. "El?"

"John, can you get Holmes to send through CCTV feeds? Let's play to Jamie's strengths here." She waited for John to pick up his phone again then addressed the others. "No need to watch John's flat, we know he's got electronic eyes everywhere, so we're being careful about how we use it."

"What about his flatmate?"

"Out of the way, recovering from injury." John picked up the story. "So far his brother has been 'warned' with a low grade incendiary device that injured a junior member of staff. He continues to act as if the threat is very general, rather than specifically aimed at him."

"You'll need obs then, John? On the brother's home?"

"Yeah." He grimaced. "Knightsbridge. There's staff in the house, the grounds are monitored, and all the doors and windows have security alarms."

"Safe then." Georgie commented.

"Maybe – the security's been breached before, although I'm sure he's upped his game there, I'd be happier if I could see that for myself. I'll go with Dan and Pat, let them do what they do best."

"You have the address?" Pat stood and grabbed three small radio mikes and earpieces, handing one to Dan, then liberated from the backpack a small box similar to Ellen's 'rover'. "Then as soon as we get visuals of our mark, we go."

"El, I'll meet you back at my place."

"I'll be close by, I'll see you arrive."

John nodded and looked around.

"Jamie, Sherlock will send you information as he gets it. H, can you collate it and let me know if anything occurs that you think is significant."

"Nothing yet for us ops boys then," Jim said with a smile, "We might as well try to find us some decent lodgings"

Jamie spun his chair round and fished a set of keys out of his pocket, tossing them to the Geordie with a smile.

"Use my place. I've got a spare room and a couch that converts to a bed. Make yourself at home." The computer chose that moment spring to life with a series of e-mails and open transmission requests. "Okay John, looks as if your guys are coming up with the goods." He typed a command in, and as a clear black and white picture flashed onto the screen, grinned up at his companions.

"Lady and gentlemen, I give you Marc Banks."

O*O*O

Danny Morgan had just completed his first sweep, strolling the length of the street, past Mycroft's house, when Pat's voice hissed in his ear. Pulling out his phone he pretended to take a call.

"There's been incursion into the back of the house." Came the low whisper. "And there's some kind of blocker on the exterior monitor. We're going in for a closer look."

"Right, I'm on my way" without appearing to hurry Dan extended his stride, walking around to the rear parking access of the upmarket properties.

John and Pat meanwhile had slipped over the wall and was approaching the back door. Pat's keen eyesight had already noted the split wood of the doorframe, up close the damage looked much worse. They waited until Dan was over the fence and into the garden before gently easing the door open. With a clear line of sight through the scullery to the kitchen, Pat could see that two people sitting at the table. He motioned Dan to join them.

"Doesn't look good." He said softly, indicating the unnatural way their heads flopped to the side.

"Bastard!" Danny hissed back, slipping through the door "Come on, let's check the rest of the place, see what he's left us."

A cursory touch to each of the bodies as they passed confirmed to John that the Carslakes had been murdered, their necks snapped and their bodies arranged in this grotesque imitation of a tea party. Separating out, they moved swiftly through the house, John searching downstairs, Pat and Dan the upper floor.

John had just past the stairs, seeing his companions making their way down as he headed towards the room Sherlock had referred to as the drawing room, when the sound of a key in the lock stopped him dead.

Mycroft stepped through the door, closing it behind him and snapping the light on.

"John?"

"Bloody hell Mycroft! Didn't expect you home for a couple of hours yet." He turned and called up the stairs. "'S all right guys, you're safe to come down."

"What's going on John?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed as Pat and Dan joined them in the hallway.

John walked towards the other man, hating to be the one to break this particular bit of news. Out of habit he glanced in through the open door of the drawing room.

"Fuck!" he shouted, grabbing Mycroft's arm "Everybody out. Run!"

They made it almost through the kitchen before the tinkling of glass was followed a split second later by the boom of the drawing room exploding.


	7. Confusion On The Chess Board

"No, no, NO!" Sherlock frantically tapped at the keyboard, his eyes flickering between it and the computer screen, but much to his annoyance yet another Marc Banks proved to be a red herring.

His search had thrown up nearly fifty 'Marc Banks', another twenty 'Marcus Banks', and hundreds with the more regular spelling of 'Mark'.

Now he sat drumming his fingers on the desk in frustration. Even with the remote link into Mycroft's databases, the work was proving frustratingly slow and each dead trail irritated and frustrated the injured man.

"Mrs Hudson!" he yelled as he glared at the computer screens in front of him. "Mrs Hudson!" impatience made his voice harsh.

It was a slightly flustered looking Mrs Hudson that came running, followed by another of Mycroft's minions.

"I need tea, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock! I thought something dreadful had happened." She stood and frowned down at him. "You have a perfectly good internal phone line here, you could have phoned down to the kitchen."

The young man looked at the phone on the side table as if it was about to leap up and bite him.

"Now don't pull that face." Mrs Hudson scolded him. "I'll go and make you some tea and something to eat…"

"No, I don't want food."

"You're due to take you medication soon, and that lovely nurse of yours will want to know that you've had something to eat." She put a hand on his arm, and softening her voice, continued "And I'll be happier knowing that you're not going to pass out at the computer again."

He shot her a look, but the dismissive reply that had formed on his tongue refused to be said. She was looking down at him with a mixture of concern and sadness, the reason for which was quite unknown and alien to him, but it stopped his no doubt cruel remark none the less. Biting his bottom lip, his eyes dropped, and flickered from side to side as his mind rapidly formed – then discarded – several responses. As the silence stretched he finally made a decision.

"Mrs Hudson, right now I'd love a cup of tea, and if you have some," he smiled winningly up at her, "I'd also love a slice of your wonderful fruit cake."

Waiting only long enough to see her answering smile as she hurried off to prepare the meal, Sherlock turned his back on his landlady and returned to the knotty problem of Marc Banks.

As he stretched out his hand towards the keyboard an e-email alert flashed up on the screen. Seeing that it originated from John's new contact address he opened it immediately, and read the contents with dawning horror.

O*O*O

Ellen frowned as H set up a laptop on the desk, and as he looked up at her she raised a querying eyebrow.

"I'll keep BBC News 24 running on this," he plugged in a mobile internet dongle as he spoke, "nothing important. I like a bit of background noise, it's as good as anything else, and better than the radio."

"Right." Pulling out her mobile she frowned down at it for a second. "John should have checked in by now."

"Give it a while," H advised. "Traffic at this time of day, they've probably got caught in the start of the rush hour." Tapping a couple of keys, H brought the screen to life, and the familiar sight and sound of the BBC newsroom lit up his corner of the room.

"Coffee's ready." Wheeling across from the other side of the room with his coffee mug clipped into a holder on his chair, Jamie moved round to watch H's slow two-finger typing. "Blimey, fingers of fire mate!" he teased

"Yeah, watch it, or I'll steal the spokes out of your wheels!" the older man replied with a mock glare.

Ellen crossed the room to collect the other two mugs of coffee, handing one to H before plopping down into faded office chair behind his desk and eyeing the computer specialist critically.

"How come the army didn't supply you with a fancy electric wheelchair? I thought they're supposed to ensure you have everything you need to get on with your life."

"Oh they tried Ellen, but I'm happy with this. It does exactly what I want it to do." He flexed his arms. "Keeps me fit, and I don't have to worry about battery failure or power cuts."

"Not very fast."

"I ain't racin'." he grinned, lifting his mug from its holder and taking a hefty swig of his coffee.

"No good for chasing the bad guys." Ellen observed

"Nor for running away from them – looks like I'm screwed!"

"Quiet!" H's voice cut through the banter as he drew their attention to the breaking news.

'_We are just receiving news of an explosion in a house in Lowndes Square, Knightsbridge. The emergency services have been called to the scene. As yet we don't know if anyone was in the building at the time of the blast. We'll keep you updated as reports come in.'_

The voice of the newsreader droned on, but the three people in the room were no longer listening. Jamie wheeled across to his computer, fingers skimming across the keyboard, trying to find a live street view to piggyback onto.

Ellen pulled her phone out once more, her thumb hovering over the key pad. Her eyes flicked to H, seeing him watching her closely.

"Don't know." She said somewhat distractedly. "I want to know they're safe, don't want to put them at risk though."

"Shall I text Georgie and Jim? Get them back here?"

"Thanks H, that'd be good. Let's get them briefed at least; we can decide what we need to do when that's done"

"Bollocks!"

"Jamie?"

"Sorry Ellen. Can't get a live feed to the incident." Pushing himself away from his desk in disgust, he turned his chair to face his companions, a frown creasing his usually cheerful face. "What do you need me to do?"

"E-mail John's flatmate. Chances are he hasn't heard the news yet."

O*O*O

The blue unmarked police car screeched to a halt at the edge of the taped off cordon, Greg was out and running before the wheels had stopped rolling. Flashing his warrant card he ducked under the tape and headed towards the senior fire officer.

"Greg, what brings you here? Not your usual sort of shout is it?" Sub Officer O'Neill shook the police officer's hand, waving vaguely with the other in the direction of the blast damaged frontage.

"The call came in that we'd had a possible bomb incident at the home of a top civil servant Chas, and if that top civil servant was home at the time, then that puts it firmly into my jurisdiction." Greg looked harassed. His conversation with John rushed back into his mind.

"Right," O'Neill nodded. "Well, bomb squad are in checking for other devices, apart from that, we're here in case the small fire that it caused re-ignites."

Both men looked up as the army Bomb Disposal officers walked out of the building. After checking in with their team, the senior officer approached, rubbing a weary hand across his face. Greg introduced himself, and waited for the man's report – by the look on his face it wasn't going to be good.

"The house is clear, there are no more devices – we've swept through from top to bottom. You've got two bodies in the kitchen; neither was killed by the explosion." Major Macauley advised him.

"Shit" Greg looked over his shoulder and motioned for Sally to join him. As she approached he said "Donovan, get a forensic team up here, ready to go in as soon as the building's declared safe. Looks like a double murder."

"We're just waiting for a structural engineer to come out and assess the building," Chas said as the Detective Sergeant walked back to the car, "but given the only real damage was the small fire where the bomb had been placed, and the blown out windows and frames, I'd say the place is fairly secure. By the time your team gets here we'll have had that confirmed."

The army officer stared grimly at Lestrade.

"If you're prepared to go in before the all clear, there's something in there I think you should see."

Tired hazel eyes flickered over the other man's face, and then with a jerk of his head towards the house he indicated that Macauley should lead the way.

Crunching across broken glass from a mirror in the hallway, the bomb expert explained how they estimated the size of the bomb by the damage caused, and how damage in the hall would have been caused by the shockwave, air forced out of the doorway and down towards the kitchen.

"We found the two of them Lestrade, just sitting at the kitchen table."

"And you say the blast didn't kill them. Could the shockwave have done it?"

"Impossible. Their necks have been snapped – there wouldn't have been enough force behind the air that rushed through here. They were killed and posed like this." He moved aside, revealing the macabre set up.

"What kind of sick fuck…?" Greg stared sadly down at the elderly couple.

"There was someone else here." Pulling a flashlight out of his pocket, he shone it on the floor near the back door. There was a large area of blood spatter, and at either side it had been disturbed, leaving partial prints of two distinctly different types of footwear, and there was a smeared partial handprint on the leading edge.

"At least two people then," crouching down Greg took a closer look. "And heading out the back door by the looks of things."

He stepped carefully around the congealing red fluid, his eyes scanning the floor for any other signs, but apart from a couple of smudgy blood stains there was nothing. The back door however was wide open, and he took a hesitant step through, alert to the possibility of the perpetrators lying in wait for him.

"I don't think the bomber was in when it blew." The Major stepped out into the early evening air.

"What, you think while some bastard was murdering the old couple, someone else had put some kind of time-bomb in the lounge?"

The bomb disposal officer laughed; a harsh and mirthless sound.

"That's for you to work out, Detective Inspector." He turned to go back in, but paused on the threshold. "I can tell you though we haven't found a timing mechanism, so unless the Fire Investigation Team find anything I'd say the device was set off manually." And with that he disappeared back inside.

Greg followed a little slower, his mind turning over all the possibilities.

"Sir," Sally Donovan's voice pulled him from his reverie as he stepped back out into the street. "The forensics team are on their way – ETA about ten minutes. The electoral records for the area show the resident of the property to be Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother."

"I'd suspected as much." He muttered, staring down at the floor, wondering if the older Holmes brother was aware of the deaths of his staff.

As Sally moved away, Greg's phone chirped with a text alert. He looked down at the message and grimaced.

"Donovan!" he called after her.

She turned and walked back, a questioning look on her face.

"Sir?"

"I need you stay here. When forensics get here, I want them to pay particular attention to the blood stain on the kitchen floor. I don't believe it belongs to either of our victims, so we need to see if we can get a DNA match."

"But where are you going?"

"I'm following up a hunch." He held out his hand for the car keys. "Arrange for a couple of officers to remain here once we've finished here – you can grab a lift back with Anderson."

For a long moment after the car pulled away Sally stared up the road after it, then shaking her head she turned back to seek out the leading fire officer.

O*O*O

Responding to H's texts, Dunn and Wainwright made it back to the ops centre in record time, and listened in dismay to Ellen's briefing.

"Are we sure this is the same address?" Jim's expression gave away the fact that he was really just clutching at straws.

"Too much of a coincidence if it's not." Jamie murmured as he sat staring at his computer screen.

"Do you want one of us to go out and do a quick reccy?"

"No Georgie, if the guys have been caught in the blast there will be nothing you can do to help by being out there, and if they haven't, and the only reason they've not been in touch is because they're laying low, knowing Pat and Dan you wouldn't be able to find them if they don't want to be found." Ellen ran her fingers through her spikey hair, huffing out an exasperated breath and turning to look back at the information she'd added to the timeline on the whiteboard.

"Anything yet from the flatmate?" she moved to stand behind Jamie's wheelchair.

"Not since he acknowledged receipt of my e-mail." He glanced up at her over his shoulder. "You and John are close, yes?"

"We've been friends for a long time."

"And you trust him to be able to look after himself, right? So trust your instincts Ellen, go with 'no news is good news' until you hear otherwise."

For the first time since the news broke the tension in the room relaxed, and the former Military Intelligence officer actually laughed.

"You know, for a youngster you have quite an old head on those shoulders!"

"I learned the…" he paused mid-sentence, then "The flatmate's got back to me."

All eyes turned expectantly towards him.

"Shit. He's confirmed the address is his brother's house." Jamie's fingers flew rapidly over the keys once more, then hovered as he stared expectantly at the screen.

"For Christ's sake! There must be something we can do." Georgie Dunn, never the most patient of men unless he was working, pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, fretting over the situation.

"Simmer down," Jim advised "we'll act when we have something to act on, until then we wait."

"And what if they don't come back?"

"Then," Ellen said calmly "we carry on, gather all the information we can, and we strike back!"

**A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting this - it didn't want to be written...**


	8. Tactical Play

**Apologies for the delay with this chapter. Please enjoy...**

Letting his mind drift as he sat in the rush hour traffic, Banks smiled to himself as he replayed in his mind the way it felt to line up the shot that triggered the explosion, to experience the flash and roar as the blast blew out the windows and flames licked up the curtains.

He had left the area quickly, using quiet back streets to avoid the rush of emergency service vehicles, but now his mind was on ditching this car and getting another. The man he'd stolen this from wouldn't be back in the country for a while, and would be looking for it in the Luton Airport car park – sufficient confusion to keep the Holmes brothers off his scent.

And he was sure it would be both Holmes brothers, because unless he had been very unlucky, Mycroft Holmes should have been well past the room where the bomb had been placed. It hadn't been intended to kill him, just to let him know that he could be taken out at any time Banks chose to do it. Like a cat playing with a mouse.

At last, as the traffic moved slowly on, he turned left into a shady mews, and parked up in a corner, being careful not to obstruct any garages or properties. The longer it takes to find the car, the colder his trail. Pulling on his baseball cap and grabbing the sports bag from the passenger seat, he made his way onto the street, walking unhurriedly away.

O*O*O

In her flat in Stratford, Julia Steers had just woken from a pain-relief induced sleep. Shuffling tiredly from her bedroom, she headed for the kitchen and filled a large glass with water, taking it with her through to the sitting room where she settled down in an overstuffed armchair and switched on the television.

Flicking through the channels she suddenly stilled, and horror curdled in her belly like poison. The news cameras were showing the front of a house in Knightsbridge, and as the reporter gave the name of the street she began to feel sick – she knew that address, not personally, but she had seen it only this morning. This was the address she had given Marc Banks – this was where Mycroft Holmes lived, and possibly died.

O*O*O

Ellen Baker leaned against the desk, making eye contact with each of the team members in their ops centre.

"If we have to, we'll hunt him down ourselves, for John if for no-one else."

"How long before you decide we can make a move?" Georgie sounded belligerent, and it transmitted through the tension in his body as he stood like an enraged bull.

"Stand down, soldier." The slight woman snapped. "We've all been in tight spots before – since when do we go rushing blindly in?"

"Since when do we just stand around and fucking wait?" The stocky soldier shouted back, moving forward and leaning into her personal space until he was almost nose to nose with her.

She stood her ground, arms folded, just looking at him until he backed away, a flush of embarrassment tinging his cheeks.

Into the tense silence, the chirping of a text alert made them all jump, and Ellen dug into her pocket and pulled out her mobile. Her relief lit up her face as she read the message aloud.

'_All safe. Stand down for tonight, lets reconvene at 08.00 – JW'_

She grinned as a collective sigh of relief rippled round the room.

"That Captain Watson's gotta have balls of steel!" Jamie chuckled appreciatively.

"He needs 'em – he lives in a flat with body parts in the fridge!" Ellen smiled as she sent a return text.

'_I'll sort it, see you at home – EB'_

'_Be there soon- JW'_

"What now then?"

"Now H, we get some rest. You guys," Ellen looked at the two covert ops specialists and the computer specialist. "Get yourselves home, get some food in you and try to get some sleep. Keep your phones handy, I don't know yet what John plans."

"I'll stay here." Jamie demurred, indicating the comfortable chairs "Unlike grandpops here I won't get a numb arse sleeping in a chair, and I'll be on hand if we get any intel from that Sherlock character." He ducked a playful swat from his uncle, looking across at Ellen with a slightly confused expression on his face. "Does he really keep body parts in the fridge?"

"John? No, but 'that Sherlock character' does."

"You want pizza then, lad?" H asked his nephew as he pulled a sleeping bag out from under his desk. "We might as well eat if we're going to be here all night."

Ellen nodded and left them arranging food, and a watch rota.

"You two make sure you get back here at oh eight hundred sharp. I've a feeling we're going to be busy tomorrow."

With a nod the two covert ops specialists turned to leave, but Georgie paused in the doorway and looked back.

"Sorry El, I didn't mean to…"

"Nah, you're good, Georgie." She shrugged. "I've had worse threats than you mate, forget it." And with a grin she shoved him out of the door.

Reaching down for the backpack Pat had brought for her, Ellen swung it up on her shoulder and turned to leave.

"Text me if you need me, ring if it's urgent, but be careful what you say – I don't know how sensitive the surveillance devices in John's flat are."

"You'll stay there?" Jamie asked.

Ellen nodded. "We need to try to make this look as normal as possible. As far as Banks is concerned I'm John's girlfriend – it'll look odd if we pussyfoot around and never spend time together."

"Right, we'll see you tomorrow then."

Slipping out of the door, Ellen walked back down Valence Road and along to Whitechapel Station to board a train to Baker Street.

O*O*O

Waiting was never Sherlock's strongpoint, but John's contact at the other end of the e-mails had warned that John had been reconnoitring the house in Knightsbridge, and could be put at risk if he tried to make contact. The waiting ate away at his mind – he wanted to know that his friend was safe.

Every couple of minutes he picked up his phone to see if he's missed a text, snarling in frustration at the blank screen. He was aware that Mrs Hudson was hovering in the background, every now and then wandering into his 'office', looking hopefully at him, and then walking away shaking her head. Sherlock wanted to snarl at her too, but he could almost hear John's voice in his head telling him it would be a 'bit not good' to take it out on the poor woman.

Linking into the CCTV, he scanned street outside his brother's house, his eyes taking in the non-descript cars that were parked, hoping to pick up a clue either to the perpetrator, or to where John and Mycroft had disappeared to.

He was watching the window blow out of the house for the fourth time, when the grating alert tone sounded and he snatched up his phone.

'_All safe and unhurt. Will contact you tomorrow – eat something and get some sleep – JW'_

"Bless him, he almost gets blown up and still he's thinking about you!" Mrs Hudson had been reading over his shoulder.

"So it would seem. Well if he thinks I'm going to bed at six o'clock in the evening he can think again." Sherlock covered his relief with his customary snarkiness, but Mrs Hudson wasn't fooled for a moment.

"Well of course he didn't expect you to go straight to bed – he wants you to eat first." She chuckled, patting his shoulder. "I'll go and make you some dinner."

Only half listening, Sherlock was frowning at the screen in front of him, thinking. Two hours later he was still sitting staring at the computer.

O*O*O

Lestrade could feel Sally's gaze following him as he steered the car away from the site of the bombing. As soon as he was out of sight he pulled over and re-read the text.

'_Greg, I know you're at the Knightsbridge bomb. Need your help. Come alone. Under the trees to the right through Albert Gate – JW'._

Taking a deep breath, he slipped the car in gear again and rolled towards Hyde Park.

Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Lestrade parked unobtrusively opposite the entrance to the park, and walked through the Albert Gate, his eyes scanning the area under the trees, the evening light casting long shadows as he walked across the grass.

"Greg."

The soft voice came from behind him, and he spun quickly, peering into the trees. It took a while, but he finally spotted John leaning against the trunk of a horse chestnut tree, a crooked smile on his face.

"John, what the bloody hell happened?"

The blond doctor just turned and led the way further under the canopy of leaves. Greg's eyes widened as he saw Mycroft sitting on the grass between two other men.

"Good evening Inspector," Mycroft rose to his feet in an elegant scramble, oblivious to – or maybe just ignoring – the smirks of the men still seated under the trees.

One of them was holding a bloody handkerchief to his face; the other was scanning the area a little too casually.

"Well? Is someone going to explain what happened?" Greg looked at John "I suppose this is something to do with that shooter?"

"Talking of shooters," the voice sounded muffled by the handkerchief. "Did the bomb specialists find a timer in the rubble?"

"Greg, meet Pat and Danny, friends of mine. Pat, what's on your mind?"

Pat stood up, dabbing gingerly at his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but now his face was looking swollen and bruised. He glanced around at his companions.

"The bomb. It wasn't triggered as target one entered through the front door, nor as John walked past the doorway of the room it was planted in – now I didn't see it, but I'd lay odds that it was within sight and range for someone with a high-power rifle to trigger it. Add to that, I thought I heard glass breaking just before the bang…"

"And then you fell flat on your face!" Danny laughed.

"Yeah well, I was trying to make sure we all got out safe and tripped over your big feet!"

"My feet ain't big" Danny swung a mock karate kick at his friend, who bounced about as if planning a counter-strike.

"Enough guys! Save it for when this is over eh?" John shook his head and added apologetically, "Sorry about that - they never outgrow the high you get when you survive an encounter with the enemy."

"That blood on the kitchen floor then – that's yours I take it." It was a statement, not a question.

"I thought I'd broken my nose, but the doc here says not."

"And unless you have access to army records you won't find his DNA profile to get a match. Mycroft, can your guys make sure there are no repercussions from this?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Right Greg, I need you to get Mycroft and my friends here to a place of safety. Not one of Mycroft's safe houses though, that might not be such a good idea given this guy's background."

Greg opened his mouth to ask just what that background was, then catching the look in John's eye closed it again and said nothing.

"Smallish hotel would be best." Danny piped up "We'll take turns keeping watch."

"Right. You two need to be at Ops HQ by oh eight hundred – get a cab, get a receipt, Mycroft will sort your expenses. Greg, you'll need to pick Mycroft up at oh seven thirty latest – he's not to be left at the hotel alone." John looked at Mycroft assessingly.

"Come on, out with it John." Mycroft gave him the kind of look usually reserved for Sherlock at his most irritating.

"I want Greg to take you back to your office in the morning – I assume you keep a change of clothes there," he waited for the nod of agreement before continuing. "And I know your guys are good, but mine are better – I'll be sending a couple of guys over to your office to act as bodyguards – I don't care how many of your guys you have with you, you make sure one of my guys is always there."

With a frown Mycroft glanced at the battered face of the man next to him.

"No, it won't be these two, it will be Jim and Georgie – specialists at covert ops. They'll be looking over your staff too, and I would advise you to take their advice seriously – if they have doubts about your people there will be good reason for it."

"What will you do?" Greg asked

"I'm grabbing a cab home, getting showered and changed, and taking my girlfriend out to dinner." With a grin and a wink he turned on his heel and walked away.

Four sets of eyes followed him, two slightly awed, the other two alight with admiration.

O*O*O

Wearing a neat, dark suit, blending in with the local populace, Marc Banks tailgated his way into the warehouse conversion, his eyes on the smartphone in his hands, offering a polite thank you to the young secretary that held the door for him. Declining to take the lift with her (_"damned phone always cuts out in there!"_) he took the stairs up to the penthouse flat.

With a quick glance around the hallway, Banks approached the door, and after a lightning fast examination of the lock withdrew from his pocket a set of skeleton keys. In seconds he had the door open.

In near silence he moved towards the sitting room, drawn by the sound of the television, and stood in the doorway staring at the back of Julia Steers' head, watching her as she watched the news channel, studying the aftermath of the bombing.

"Hello Julia." He spoke softly, yet his voice sounded like a thunderclap in the spacious room.

Julia jumped up, whirling round to stare open mouthed at the intruder, the glass falling from her nerveless hands, water spilling on the thick pile carpet.

"How did…"

"Oh please, any question but that." He sneered "You're not the heroine in a melodrama – you're the lady that sold out her boss to save her little brother. He walked forward, his eyes, cold and hard, holding hers as he closed the gap.

"And now, my sweet Julia, we are going to discuss what you will do next."

O*O*O

John yawned as he and Ellen walked in through the unlocked door of Nightwatching Electronic Security Specialists.

"Rough night?" Jamie asked with a laugh, wheeling across to switch the kettle on.

"He snores!" Ellen complained, smothering her own yawn.

"And you fidget." John countered as he stopped to look at the white board. "I see Sherlock's been in touch – did he say why he needed me to ring?"

"No," Jamie pulled out his mobile and began to open a text. "H's gone for bacon sarnies – do either of you want one?"

John shook his head, but Ellen nodded enthusiastically, and Jamie sent the text. In the meantime John dialled Sherlock's number, sitting at an angle on the edge of the desk.

"John," Sherlock burst into speech as soon as the connection was made. "I hacked into Mycroft's system this morning."

"Good morning to you too. I suppose you had good reason to do that?"

"Well of course I did, John. Banks would not have been privy to Mycroft's address – my brother never mixes business with his home life…"

"Except where you're concerned" John interrupted

"…and so Banks would have had to get his information from someone." Sherlock continued without pause. "Mycroft's personnel file was accessed by a senior member of Human Resources early yesterday morning. There was no need for her to do so that I can see, and she never looked further than his basic information, just as far as his address."

"Have you advised your brother?" John looked up as he spoke, nodding a greeting to the other members of his little team.

"Yes, he's just arrived at his office." Sherlock paused, and then added "I have the address of the lady, would one of your friends be able to take a look? Strikes me as he may be holed up with her – Mycroft said they have history."

John pulled his notebook from his pocket and scribbled down the address.

"I'll get onto it. How's your chest?"

"Healed." Sherlock answered much too quickly.

"Yeah, don't make me ask Mrs Hudson. What does the nurse say?"

"She said it's looking good, healing well, and now the drain is out it shouldn't be long before I can return home."

"Let me be the judge of that – from the viewpoint that it's far from safe to be at home…"

"But you're there!"

"Stop sulking Sherlock," out of the corner of his eye he caught the grins of the assembled team. "I spend hardly any time there, and check it thoroughly when I return."

"So would I." Sherlock huffed.

"No, you wouldn't, you'd just look most put out as the flat exploded around you. Stay put and be patient, keep checking the CCTV. I'll get someone round to reccy Miss Speers' address."

"What about Mycroft?"

"He carries on as normal. We can't hope to believe that Banks can be fooled into thinking he targeted the wrong house – he had the run of the house."

There was a tense silence at the other end of the phone, which John correctly interpreted.

"I don't think the Carslakes would have suffered too much, Sherlock. It looked swift and clean."

"I'll keep looking. Keep me informed." With that Sherlock cut the call. John stared at the phone in his hand for a few minutes more, then shoved it into his jeans pocket and loudly cleared his throat.

Instantly, all the background laughing and joking at Pat's expense quietened down and everyone settled down for the briefing.

John outlined what had happened at Mycroft's house, and updated them with the information he had received from Sherlock.

"So Jim, Georgie, do you have access to business wear? Plain black suits etc?"

Jim nodded, but Georgie grimaced uncomfortably.

"Not that fits me."

"Get one – as soon as please Georgie. Bring yours with you, Jim? No? Buy new then – full kit both of you, get receipts, you'll be reimbursed." He nodded towards the door. "Go now, be as quick as you can, and head straight over to Whitehall once you're done. I'll get Jamie here to send your details to Mycroft. On your way lads."

Not even waiting until the two men had left the building he turned his attention to Jamie.

"Sherlock gave you access to CCTV links, did you manage to get live feed from Knightsbridge?"

"No, but overnight he forwarded the recordings," he beckoned the remaining team members to his desk and opened up a new screen. "This was shortly before it happened – see there's Dan, taking a call."

"That would have been your incursion warning." Danny said.

Pat nodded, and Jamie continued.

"I spent my watch time last night going over these images, and here – look at this."

As the recording showed Mycroft's driver pulling away having dropped him off, he slowed the frame speed down so that, as they looked carefully they could see the end of a rifle protruding from a car window, there was the ghost of a ripple effect across the screen, and then the front of the house blasted out.

"That car…"

"Sorry Ellen, there's no clear view of the number plate, and if you keep watching, as the smoke billows out he pulls out, and is away down the road while the cameras are still obscured, he's just a vague shape."

"But you're sure it's him."

"No one else would have moved like that, John. Joe Average would have been shocked into immobility, a rabbit in the headlights, but him," he stopped the recording and pointed to the car-like shape, "he was expecting it, he was calm and unsurprised."

Picking up his empty mug Jamie wheeled himself around the people gathered at his desk and crossed to make himself another coffee.

"I've sent this info to your flatmate, he's copied over the recording from the surrounding streets, between us we should pick him up and track down where he went."

"Okay," John turned to Pat and Danny. "I want you two to run obs on an address in Stratford, that member of staff Sherlock told us about" Scribbling down the address, he handed the scrap of paper to Pat. "Use your discretion, keep your phones on vibrate – if I hear any more I'll advise you by text."

The two men nodded, grabbed their jackets and left.

"John, you and I will be taking a stroll," Ellen waggled her mobile at him and grinned "Malc has some information for us."


End file.
